From Sea Level to 4,000ft: Part II 4,000ft

Mount Diablo Summit

Having spent the best part of Saturday at sea level, Sunday took on loftier heights. Whilst there had been aspirations to ride high with a new kite down at the beach, these didn't quite take off. The day was divided into two halves offering two of my favourite things. Firstly, a trip outdoors for a picnic as the temperatures soared in the East Bay. Secondly, another tick-off in the bucket list, a flying lesson. Many thanks to The Missus for an excellent Christmas present. 

Mt Diablo State Park but could easily be the Glastonbury boundary 2010

Reaching 3849 ft, Mount Diablo offers views stretching some two hundred miles. Mount Diablo State Park is 20,000 acres of rolling hills topped off with the mountain's double pyramid. The terrain in April, still lush green from the winter rains, took me straight back to the early morning annual Wednesday pilgrimage to the Glastonbury Festival. I could have easily been in Somerset driving (car full of tents, booze and gazebos) to that haloed land. For the first time in a long time, I had a real knot of homesickness for the English countryside as strains of "Jerusalem" and Elgar's "Nimrod" flooded out from my mind's left and right speakers. 

The actor Patrick Stewart, ham that he is, once described how, on hearing "Nimrod" while driving in LA, had to pull his car over, so overcome with emotion was he for England. I didn't cry but at that moment I knew exactly how he felt. 

                                         I have to admit I am welling up watching this video

The beauty of the state park was breathtaking in all its Northern California/South West England glory. As the car thermometer touched 90f, The Missus and I pulled over for some fresh air and a spot of lunch at a lookout point. The US does many things well. Not least, plenty of picnic areas in beauty spots and, because the country is so vast, these are rarely thronging with people. With wildflowers growing behind and a jaw dropping view in front, the leviathan lunch sandwich was served. 

Never in the field of human picnics was such a large sandwich consumed by so few. Backed by a quinoa support salad The Missus and I only managed to eat half of the monster, but this sturdy bread mountain was going to keep on giving, providing both a lunch and a supper snack as it matured the next day. 

A sandwich with a view

Even this giant sandwich was a warm up for the headline act. Though it may be geeky for some, I've always loved aeroplanes. As a child my babysitter would take me to Manchester Airport (then "Ringway") to watch the planes take off and land. The beauty of Manchester is that it doesn't have any snooty Southern prohibition, preventing a decent vantage point of the runway. Aviation enthusiasts encouraged. There's even a pub with a beer garden where the jets threaten to topple your pint. Ever tried watching a take off or landing at Heathrow? Impossible. The miserable powers that be have deliberately obscured all views, the spoilsports. 

Up close and personal

Now, watching is one thing, controlling a flying can with wings is quite another. Though I'd longed for this moment I can't say that I didn't feel a touch of apprehension mixed in with the excitement.  As the instructor walked me through the pre-flight checks with many, "check to make sure that's not going to fall off" comments, I tugged and checked obligingly. "Make sure the dents aren't too big" is not something anyone really wants to hear.

Safety checks are largely "tap tap tap, tap tap tap"

Once I'd strapped in, put on my headset, primed the engine, entrusted my life to a stranger, I started up the puppy by....turning the key. The engine cleared it's throat as it spat into life. I'd been told that I'd be in control whilst taxiing, take off and most of the flight but was relieved that the instructor navigated us onto the taxiway thereby avoiding the chance of careering into the stationary aircraft.

Learning how to operate the filanji

Taxiing is controlled by throttle (a large British Leyland type choke) and the foot pedals which control both left and right via the rudder and by breaking using the top of the pedals. Initially I forgot about the breaking part, swinging left and right of the yellow guideline as my subconscious "academic" mind considered that, because the word "rudder" was involved, left must mean right and right must mean left.  From careering down the taxiway like a driver searching for that last toffee he was sure he'd seen on the passenger side floor of his car, my flying skills appeared to improve dramatically.

Taxiing

Once positioned on the runway, the throttle we teased the up to 7,000 rpm, trundled, stumbled then skipped off the tarmac. As the aircraft left the ground the wind jostled it from side to side and for a moment I had a fear that a "paff" into the ground moment was imminent but it climbed steadily and, dare I say it, professionally. I had been told to head towards the wind farm, roughly west, maintaining a gentle climb and keeping the plane level. Never have I paid so much attention to a dashboard, to my actions and to everything going on around me. The little plane, like a person with a new nose job, was sensitive to every slight, no matter how appropriate or deliberate. As we levelled out at 2,500ft and the instructor seemed none too concerned in getting involved, I took a moment to relish the experience. I was flying.

As we turned over the bay, maneouvering from left to right, right to left, I fell into a common trap, fixating on one instrument. Now, I remember the Krypton Factor and alongside the assault course, the flight simulator round was just as good. I distinctly remember the instruction was to pay attention to the artificial horizon. Not so, or at least maybe that's the case for a passenger jet, but the damage had been sown at childhood. I found it hard to take my eyes off it. This day I learnt it's not accurate. Oh how illusions can be shattered. As I got to grips with the four different instruments that all corroborate each others' evidence, I couldn't help but wonder, "..but where's the iPod dock?" I had reasonably resigned myself that I wouldn't be able to crank up my own playlist for the experience but to have my faith an the artificial horizon undermined, this was a lot to stomach.

The hour passed by, fortunately, without incident. One of the most fun moments was getting the instructor to show me how to do a 45 degree "steep" turn and, as we lost altitude, he pulled on the throttle. The resulting g's, pulled when we went both left and right, were better than any rollercoaster.

From now on, just call me Captain. 

Terra firma with a California Veer from the yellow line

From Sea Level to 4,000ft: Part I Sea Level

Some weekends can drift by, washing over us in a pool of laziness, while others can wash over us as we gently dull our senses in whichever way we see fit. For some folks in San Francisco April 20th, or in local parlance 4/20, would have been an excuse to get horizontally stoned. Not that, judging by the smell in any local park, down on Market or 50% of passing cars, this would be have been different from any other day. They do like their weed in California. 420 is US slang for the stuff and so on that day Twitter was alive with gleeful stoners. Well when I say alive, I mean there was some slurred bro-ing and dude-ing going on. A local wine bar marked the day after with....

"Here all week, you must try the veal"

It's a shame I don't smoke weed, for my weekend was full of gourmet munchie material. Starting with my first visit of the year to Off The Grid at Fort Mason, the largest food truck rendezvous of the SF weekly calendar. Last years hit, chicken and coriander gyoza from Happy Dumplings, was ignored this time for some new experiences. The two standouts were extremely food filthy "Mac 'n' Cheese Spring Rolls with Hot Fondue Sauce" (dirtier than a Game Of Thrones outtake) and the "Sexy Fries" from Curry Up Now - waffle fries smothered (this is the US so definitely smothered) in surprisingly spicy chicken tikka masala. Again, not so much "sexy", more "dirty" in a Christina Aguilera way. I was high on carbs - I must be getting old. 

Courtesy of http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/tag/pop-up-shops/

Saturday brought the real heat. As if the mayor had suddenly remembered where the thermostat was (he's about as good as controlling the heat as the super is at controlling the central air to my building) temperatures soared over the weekend. The change was well publicised and the whole of SF made plans to enjoy the first real sauna blast of the year.  Another reason why SF is like London, when the sun comes out, so too do the summer dresses and every patch of open space is full of basking people. Why is SF better than London in this case? You don't have to become a pompous Londoner in Brighton to enjoy the beach, just stroll down the hill. It doesn't matter which one, there are many.

The Marina in The Marina who'd have thought it?

The Missus and I decided to brave the bros and head down to Crissy Field. Plans for a Nigella Lawson style picnic went out the window as time ticked on, so a quick trip to Whole Foods rendered enough provisions to see us through. A spell at the beach for me is governed by a) how long I can put up with sand in my food without throwing a hissy fit (I hate that odd crunch on bite down - "Is that a tooth disintegrating or just a bloody piece of beach") b) Have I accidentally burnt myself again? or c) I've run out of BBC Radio 4 podcasts to listen to. While a) was touch and go for a while, we did well to stay until the Pacific wind began to whip in. We'd also run out of cheese. 

Let's ALL go to the beach

Being a people watcher, going to a crowded beach is a lot of fun. What people bring, what they do and  how they interact is fascinating. It can maintain anyone's interest long after the podcasts run dry. The dude who uses his admittedly very cool "I'm going to dig for china" dog to chat up non-plussed women in their bikinis. Even though the mutt would play dead when the owner gestured to shoot it with his hand, still dude went home accompanied only by his canine.

There's the "are you really twenty-ones" flying on their first ever drink in the sun. The couple bickering over who forgot the mayonnaise (no that wasn't me and The Missus). The super prepared who bring enough food and utensils to make Jamie Oliver blush. They all provide excellent entertainment. Also astounding, the variety of beach activities that must take a packhorse to bring. My favourite, a mini trampoline that a group of people use to bounce a ball off. The game looks like  inverted volleyball and seems like a lot of fun, albeit hard work in 90f heat. 

The local yacht club race...spinnakers at the ready

When The Missus and I finally traipsed back up the hill, for all that goes down must go back up, the reward was a stop at Cultivé Frozen Yogurt. Here you can indulge in serve yourself healthy froyo treats. Healthy that is until you slather your pot with offerings from the racks of toppings available. If M&S did pick and mix...

FroYo Smug

Let's All Meet Up In The Year 2012

Outside The Warfield

Missing out on Coachella this year was tough especially when James were added to the bill. To make matters worse, The Missus and I couldn't score tickets for Pulp. The advantage of not going to the festival is that most acts play in the Bay Area around festival dates. As this year Coachella is spread over two weekends the chances of seeing choice bands are doubled. 

Pulp's gig at The Warfield was the hottest ticket in town. The gig sold out in under five minutes. It makes you proud. The Missus and I had to swallow our pride and buy our entry via StubHub. 

It's confession time. Though I know Pulp's big hitters the only album of theirs I own is of course "A Different Class".  Not having that would be akin to not owning "Definitely, Maybe". Ridiculous. So last week James played the tiny Independent while Radiohead played the "enormodrome". This week it was Pulp, at the midsized, Brixton-Academy-like, Warfield. The size, the layout and the smell transported me back to the legendary London venue.

Now, while I'm confessing - I don't like Radiohead. There I said it. If I'd been at Coachella, I would have stomached ten minutes of that self-indulgent, "I'm not going to play the songs the crowd wants" nonsense. Everyone knows the festival rule. Play the hits. Play the songs everyone knows and keep the new stuff to a minimum. No more than two. 

Back to Pulp. Jarvis Cocker, the man who famously mooned Michael Jackson was more of an entertainer last night than Jacko ever was. His between songs banter had the crowd roaring with laughter. He owned the audience and the stage with his charm and his unique gangly dancing. though I'm not sure Mr Cocker has a career in drumming. His fey attempts at playing were less Animal and more Oscar Wilde, but all part of the act.

The band did not shy away from their back catalogue, they embraced it. As the now retro light show flared into the audience for, "Sorted For E's and Whizz" it could have been 1996 all over again. "Reach for the lasers. Safe as ****!" Before "Disco 2000" Jarvis reminisced on the 90s but was delighted that, "..we're all still here." Without the time limit constraint of a festival set, Pulp played for two hours not ending with the obvious, though still brilliant, "Common People".  They even made time to go all Fleetwood Mac on us.

"Thank you to the electric heater...and good night"

Not sure I've been in a room with more British people since I was last in my East End boozer back in London. Still, the SF hipsters were out in force to worship their Pied Piper, the man that started it all. It might be nearly twenty years behind the curve, but it's time to don some horn rimmed specs and dig out the Pulp back catalogue.  

When The Human Touch Is What I Need

The Independent SF

Five days later I'm just about back on the ground, peeled off the ceiling from what was, as expected, another James triumph. Every James gig stands out for different reasons, this had many to sear it onto my mind. The intimate venue, the soundcheck, the Q&A, an 85% close to perfection setlist and most of all enjoying the music in a new country with new friends. Oh, and I finally gave in, couldn't resist anymore and bought a James daisy t-shirt. 

Chat during the soundcheck

While the lead-up to the gig was exciting, I held a few minor anxieties in the back of my consciousness, all successfully drowned out by cranking up the James back catalogue, as J-Day approached. 

An irritating voice couldn't stop itself from whispering, will they play the tracks you wanted or will you leave disappointed? Will they deviate a little too far from the originals and leave you feeling cheated but too proud to admit it? Do they really want to open up the soundcheck to obsessives and take questions from them? Is it a good idea to be meeting strange men off the internet to go to a gig? I needn't have worried. James delivered on the night. Charmed in the VIP access moments and the strange man,  wasn't strange at all. Embrace the twenty-first century and meet people off of [sic] the internet. 

As is the English way, gigs and drink go hand in hand so after meeting in bar, I headed with my new fan friend to the soundcheck, arrival timed, as is the London way, just before everything kicked off. Walking into a gig space in the middle of the day is much like leaving the cinema in the afternoon only in reverse. You still move into the new environment blinking, trying to orientate yourself and adjust to the changed reality. Thinking about it, it's a close as we'll get to Star Trek type beaming, moving instantly from one world to another. If that new world entered offers a chance to chat with a band you've enjoyed for many years, the surrealism is only increased to an acid free acid trip.

I enjoyed the VIP experience, was impressed by the band's candidness and their willing to offer full answers. The "strangemanofftheinternet" (not strange at all really) asked how Tim Booth's walkabouts came to pass. Tim explained, from a festival where their crowd were there to see Korn. In the run up, they'd been accused of being "gay" and so decided to up-the-ante and appear in glittering costumes. A reasoned and humourous response. Apparently Saul preferred to simply challenge the more vocal of the crowd to simply, "suck his ****!" Booth didn't enlighten us if anyone took up the offer.  

The walkabout was Booth's idea, responding to a particularly vociferous member of crowd, he got down and sang "Sit Down" straight to the man. I like James a lot but even I'd be a bit uncomfortable having someone sing into my face. Regardless, it worked and the man asked Tim to give him a hug afterwards. 

My favourite moment however, came from Saul who, when discussion turned to the band's anticipation of their Coachella set, compared festivals to life. You spend the first part wandering around, trying to get your bearings before deciding if you're having a good time then getting into the swing of it. Or at least, words to that effect. How apt. 

For the record, songs heard in the soundcheck were "Sound", "Johnny Yen", half of "Out To Get You" and "English Beefcake". "Out To Get You", a particular favourite of mine, was not played in its entirety because of the special ending planned. This prompted discussion over the band not wanting to repeat themselves and how they don't like to play the track too often to preserve the freshness of emotion. Some bright spark in the audience piped up that they'd played it in the last SF jaunt. It was duly struck off the setlist. Whoever you are, I shall hunt you down.

                            "Look at what you could've won" - "Out To Get You" @ Coachella 

After the soundcheck  The "strangemanofftheinternet" (not strange at all really) and I headed to a local bar, were joined by The Missus and The "strangemanofftheinternet" (not strange at all really) took over the internet enabled jukebox with James' Woolwich Arsenal back catalogue. This was not as much of a hit with the crowd as it was with us. A fellow drinker pleaded, when I returned to select more tracks, to "not put on any more James please, I haven't heard them since college." His request was, in the most part, ignored. 

Planned setlist thanks to @larryontour

James, always wanting to stay fresh, delivered an in part spontaneous setlist. Thanks to those at www.wearejames.com for exactly what was performed for I was too busy "flailing about". Brilliantly "Waterfall" stayed and I got to hear "Come Home" for the first time live (cue significant "flailing about"). Though "Out To Get You" was lost, the enthusiastic crowd prompted another encore and were rewarded with an acoustic, almost waltz version of "Laid". "Sound" remained, which has to be one of the best songs performed live by any band. Much to this Englishman's delight, "Waltzing Along"..."...may your eyes be opened by the wonderful" made an outing. "Ring The Bells" came in earlier in the list, was as uplifting as ever and appears to be rightfully a James mainstay.  The only real lacking was "Tomorrow" but, as I watched this live on the Coachella webcast, I couldn't help but think the band had done themselves proud and served me well.  

That megaphone can mean only one thing....."Sound"

Until the next time, "Sometimes, when I look deep in your eyes, I can see your soul." 

May Your Eyes Be Opened By The Wonderful

My first memories of James, like many, are of sitting down and jumping up and sitting back down again in near enough rhythm to their 1991 hit, "Sit Down." This track remains their most well known song though their Woolwich Arsenal of a back catalogue  has more well known tracks than they're often given credit for. James are, Tim Booth, Jim Glennie, Larry Gott, Saul Davies, Mark Hunter, David Baynton-Power and Andy Diagram.."on trumpet". 

Whenever the Madchester scene is remembered, The Stone Roses and Happy Mondays leap to the front of the queue of peoples' minds, while James modestly, politely stand patiently behind. As with all those that offer some restraint, James offer so much more than their louder, brasher counterparts. Despite a quiet period for most of the 00's where Tim Booth (lead singer) explored other ventures, James returned, firing on all cylinders with their back catalogue, creating new music as good as the emotionally charged, frantic and Proustian classics that they are loved for. "Waterfall" and "Of Monsters And Heros And Men" being as good as any of their earlier work. They still got it.

          The band perhaps best known for "Laid" in the US thanks to the American Pie soundtrack

I didn't get the chance to see James live pre-hiatus but have made up for it by being immersed in their emotional farewell gig at the Manchester G-Mex, recorded live in 2001. Luckily for me and many others, the James return meant I could make up for the many lost live chances, seeing than perform at festivals and venues across in the UK, The Royal Albert Hall, Shepherd's Bush Empire and the legendary Brixton Academy to name a few.

Singing along to "Ring The Bells" V Festival, 2007

I have so many wonderful memories of live music, being at one with the crowd, hundreds or thousands of voices singing with you, yet it still feels as though the band are playing just for you, straight to you. This for me is what live music is all about. It takes great skill, humility and boldness to win the crowd and James make up so many of these memories. 

When Oasis finally split halfway through the V Festival of 2009, James got bumped up the bill. Tim Booth, in an impromptu tongue in cheek nod to the temper tantrum toddlers of chart rock, inhaled from one of the onstage helium balloons and chipmunked out a few bars of "Wonderwall." Considering Oasis had let their fans down, this was a fitting nod to their childishness.

A Boothian walkabout

Great though this moment was, the standout memory for me was when Tim headed down to the crowd for one of his signature walkabouts. At one point he handed over the microphone to me for a few short seconds during "Born Of Frustration." It was no matter that a combination of shock, exuberance and that festival feeling meant that I could hardly remember the words. I may also have been distracted by my frantic hat waving which for some reason became my dance of that summer. Yet again James had broken through the proscenium arch and enjoyed the moment with their fans and I had made my debut on the V-stage with my favourite band. Well, sort of.

                         From 4.20 onwards is where the action really is or not really but I loved it 

This week, James embark on an American tour structured around their Coachella dates (details at www.wearejames.com). My heart sank when I heard that they were playing the festival, having had such a great time there last year and missing out on tickets this time. It leapt  though when news of an SF gig came out. Oh to experience their performance at that beautiful desert festival.

So I'd lucked out on Coachella and having missed The Morning After The Night Before Tour in 2010, being in London when the band played SF and vice versa when they played London, there was no chance of missing out again. In two days time James will play the Independent in San Francisco, I'll even get to experience the sound check. I cannot wait to enjoy the band nail it live once again. 

I'll be committing another fantastic James experience to memory for they have been a soundtrack to my growing up and to my adulthood. Sitting on the floor at a school disco - "Sit Down". Leaving uni and driving to London with my best mate, car full of swag and an ironing board constantly threatening to decapitate us on the M6 - "Come Home". Playing Goldeneye endlessly on the Nintendo 64 (and I don't do gaming) - "Tomorrow". Sitting on a beach in Mexico stunned as the waves emulated and lulled with the music - "Of Monsters And Heros And Men". Singing as loud as I can with my best friend at Brixton Academy - "Out To Get You".  Loving another friend enjoy a song so much - "Sound". Jumping up and down like an idiot every time, everywhere  - "Ring The Bells". 


Every band should have a bit of brass, in their delivery and an instrument. James also mix in violin. They're not afraid to experiment onstage and rumour has it, according to the internet pixies, they've rehearsed over 60 songs for the current tour. Who knows what Wednesday's setlist will be. James prove that the best live music is not about lights, staging and fancy presentation but musicians who connect with their audience, enjoy their music, enjoy their time onstage together and make each night special.


So whatever songs James choose to bring to San Francisco, I can guarantee you they're going to be great and there will be a raving review here soon afterwards. As soon that is, as I am peeled back down from the roof. It's not English to be so openly and publicly enthusiastic perhaps the US is getting to me.

Cuisine du Sud - Southern Style Cooking with a European Flourish

There are so many restaurants to choose from in SF that when you're in the mood for a splurge it's hard to go back to one you've already enjoyed if, like me, you don't splurge as often as you'd like. Sure you can go back to your favourite burger bar repeatedly but when there are plenty of top end offerings to send your taste buds on a reverie, the risk of going back somewhere that you hold in high regard and finding that it's not as good as you remember or time has embellished your experience, is risky. I'm so glad we went back to 1300 Fillmore.

My French 75

I first took The Missus here for her birthday in 2011 and had one of the best meals I've ever eaten in the city. I still dream of the hickory smoked spare ribs that were on special and the cornbread that's lighter on your tongue than Wayne Sleep is lighter on his feet. Looking for a special place to take my folks who were in town from the UK, The Missus and I took the gamble to go back to 1300 Filmore. It offers something you don't get in the UK, Southern style cooking, but it has a lighter, more sophisticated edge.

The ambiance is just as I remembered, if not better. Relaxing, classy but also with a buzz. Jazz legends adorned the walls as we sipped on our cocktails, reclining in leather armchairs but the night was given even more of an oomph when we could hear house music playing subtlety but noticeably in the background. The "European accent" that enhances the food has tripped on into the sound system. 

Not a wall of sound but a wall of jazz

The cornbread is still light, fresh and cakey like fresh brioche. I ordered the Maple Syrup Slow Braised Beef Short Ribs. Beef that again dissolved on my tongue. The velvety mash was delicious (though still not as good as the mash served at Maze in London but that was something else entirely). The mac and cheese with truffle was rich and creamy.

For our appetizers we shared the Shrimp Hushpuppies which were, for me, the lowest point of the meal either slightly over done or the oil was a little old but I was in the minority. The rest of the party lapped them up. We were persuaded by the waiter to try the Barbecue Shrimp N Creamy Grits. I really don't like grits but good Lord they were delicious. Light, creamy and not that sloppy grainy texture I'm used to. In true Southern style I couldn't stop myself from mopping the plate with the remnants of the cornbread.

Braised short rib

By the time we got to dessert we were all pleasantly full but just for kicks shared the homemade cookies and ice-cream. The texture of the cookies was another melt in the mouth taste sensation though the cinnamon was a little overdone  but, seeing as Americans can't get enough of the spice, I doubt this is a bad thing for most diners.

Dinner was fantastically rounded off with a visit from the chef and owner, a fellow Brit who, like so many I've met, came to SF for a short trip and never went home. I'm so glad he didn't. I'd have no qualms in recommending 1300 Fillmore to anyone or indeed to going back again and again.

Mardi Gras - America proves it can hold its booze

With another entry on the bucket list successfully checked and yet more American myths dispelled, Mardi Gras in New Orleans proved to surpass all expectations. Visit The Big Easy any day of any week and you will find live music, people dancing on balconies and bead tossing but the frenzy really starts two weeks before Mardi Gras itself. As the weekend before Fat Tuesday arrives  the city gives up on normal day to day living and people take to the streets in their hundreds of thousands.

Just landed at the fantastically named Louis Armstrong Airport

Arriving in town on the Saturday, after an unbelievably early 3am start, The Missus, Blondie and I landed amid a torrential downpour and tornado warnings. Had it not have been for our extreme tiredness, the jolting dissent and drenching skies would have terrified us all in equal measure. Mother Nature's threats had nothing on the levels of pleasurable punishment that the next four days would bring and no amount of bad weather could have ruined the experience. 

Yet again, the USA proved itself to be an unimaginably huge country for my tiny little British mind. Despite getting up before the Gregorian calendar had even been adopted the sheer distance and unforgiving timezone changes meant that by the time check-in to the hotel was completed, it was already cocktail hour, though in N'awlins, cocktail hour is pretty much morning to when the cocktails or the money run out.  I'd visited the city once before, over Thanksgiving in 2000, and flippantly dismissed the Hand Grenades sold by street vendors out of the taps you normally see dispensing flat cola in bars. More fool me. Sometimes it is not wise to assume that just because a drink is served in a novelty souvenir glass it is not potent.

Settling in

Staying at the Festiva Frenchman the troupe couldn't  have been more perfectly placed for The French Quarter and hitting all the bars that locals hang out in. In fact, Frenchman Street is the place to be. The Missus done good again. Mojitos Rum Bar & Grill was instantly designated our local and while the ladies settled down to order I nipped back to the hotel to grab my umbrella as the rain decided really go for it. This was foolish move for Blondie was left to order me "a beer". On returning I found, much to my disgust, a bottle of Miller Lite. Let me tell you the three things that are wrong with this. 1 - Miller 2 - Lite 3 - Bottle. After a swift lesson in beer drinking, Blondie corrected her innocent error and, much to her credit, has not made the same mistake since. 

Is it actually possible to "take it easy" on the first night of a holiday? Experience has taught me that any attempt to gently ease into a holiday actually leads to monumentally large nights and Mojito's set the tone for the rest of  a trip, focused on four days of unevenly balancing alcohol, food intake and parade watching.

Crab turned up to eleven

New Orleans not only sells the most potent cocktails I've ever tried, all deceivingly  made to taste of harmless fruit juice, but has the some of the best food in the country. In fact Sunday night's meal in the pleasantly smart but not too stuffy Muriel's was, and I am sticking my neck out here, the best I've eaten since moving to the country. As the foolish ban of foie gras in SF creeps ever closer, I leapt at the chance to have the special for my starter. What food doesn't taste better with the threat of gout? It was melt in the mouth, fat heaven loaded onto sweet toasted brioche. Always willing to try a new fish, my main was  Puppy Drum, worth ordering for the name itself. While Andrew Jackson peered loftily down from his oil painted heights, I tucked into a light velvet fish, crusted in pecans served with a tower of crab meat and crab meat garnish. You can never have enough crab, so long as it doesn't give you food poisoning.

Upstairs room at Muriel's

After dinner the waitress invited us to explore the restaurant building. This was the second restaurant tour we'd been offered and I wondered if it's a local thing. The first was in Antonie's , a pleasant but gastronomically disappointing New Orleans institution. There we sat by a signed picture of J Edgar Hoover who I confidently but incorrectly introduced as Former President Hoover to passing, bemused Americans.  In Muriel's we were left to explore the strangely opulent boudoir-like upper rooms.

Decorated building in The French Quarter

One of the strangest sensations of living in the US is getting used to being surrounded by relatively new buildings. Perhaps the age, in comparison, of the French Quarter, is one of the reasons why New Orleans is so appealing to Europeans. It has a sense of history and an attitude to life that is easily recognised. The Sun came out, fittingly on Sunday, with the thermometer rising steadily for the rest of our stay, making beads sparkle as they hung, Mr T like, around revelers necks. The wrought iron balconies, decorated with banners, drapes and Mardi Gras casualties danced in the sunlight and swayed drunkenly as each day progressed into night, more cocktails were consumed and the parades rolled on, becoming ever more lavish.

We're gonna need a bigger float

No trip to New Orleans is complete without at least one Hurricane from Pat O'Briens. I couldn't tell how many the three of as drank from there and other bars as we stumbled around the city but nowhere took the opportunity to water down their drinks and despite all of the partying, all of the booze drunk, not once was there a cross word, a casualty in the street or any sense of ill feeling. The mood throughout the town was of goodwill and friendliness. 

                                                             Meeting two new friends

Even though Americans are significantly more comfortable striking up conversations with strangers than us reticent Brits, New Orleans make San Franciscans seem as friendly as Parisian waiters. Some were more friendly than others, particularly the sixty-five year old amorous Canadian woman who's advances I had to strenuously avoid, much to the embarrassment of daughter.  This perhaps was the night where things went a little too far, but then when it seems a good idea to buy a 32oz hang around the neck cocktail to tide you over when leaving a restaurant, sensibleness is not a top priority. 

The assault on senses and livers continued and even bordered on spring break style shenanigans on a few occasions. I was twice asked to show my penis, firstly by two girls who were, naturally, charmed by my accent but thought the natural progression from that conversation was, "Show us your ****!" I politely declined. Secondly while striking up conversation with a gay guy, Blondie also tried to strike up a deal for me, "get it out" (his words not hers) in exchange for giving Blondie some beads. I declined again.

Beads hang from a tree in The Garden District

While this may all seem debauched, the good humour that swept through the city meant that there was no offense taken and no aggravation, unlike in the UK. The only event at home that comes close to Mardi Gras would be the Notting Hill Carnival, where the police take to the streets in huge numbers, crowds jostle for position and tempers flare. In New Orleans space is shared, the trinkets and beads thrown from floats are often passed to others in the crowd so that everyone gets in on the action and everyone has a great time.  The police are present but they join in, passing beads from their cars and at midnight as Ash Wednesday begins, they clear the streets.

The ceremonious start of Lent

As the clock strikes twelve, police cars drive up Bourbon Street followed by mounted policemen, ceremonially clearing the streets and marking the start of Lent. People pour out of the bars or back onto balconies to watch the procession, cheering, clapping and thanking the police department for their work during the festival and no doubt throughout the year. A fitting, respectful and friendly end to four days without incident. Of course the crowd then file back into the bars because the night's not done yet and there's always time for one more drink and to make a new friend.