New Orleans Frosé.
There is no other Frosé like a New Orleans Frosé.
A guy waiting for a table stepped up to the bar and asked for a Frosé. The only reason I took note is because he doesn’t look like the kind of man who orders a Frosé. I am not going to try to describe the kind of man who orders a Frosé. Use your imagination. You know the type. This guy was nothing like that.
I am talking about a glass of slush made of rosé wine. I have never ordered it, myself. I find the very idea of it repellant. Some people like it. You know the type.
The bartender, who is an up-and-comer in New Olreans’ restaurant scene, asked the guy if he wanted his Frosé in a glass or a cup since he was waiting outside. This guy, who must be from out of town, he says, “I’m bringing it outside so it has to be plastic.”
The bartender, who is an up-and-comer in New Olreans’ restaurant scene, she said, “You’re waiting for a table. You can take this glass glass outside. Who wants to drink out of a novelty plastic cup like a tourist?”
I was not in the French Quarter. I was in Mid-City, the Heart of New Orleans, as some people say. I was not in the lobby of the J.W. Marriott hotel in New Orleans. The murals in that lobby give me nightmares.
The murals in the J.W. Marriott hotel on Canal Street are not as bad as the murals in Union Train Station on Loyola Avenue. The murals the J.W. Marriott at least seem well-intentioned. The murals in the train station look like a schizophrenic painted them. Welcome to New Orleans!
The guy went outside with his glass glass. Consuela and I consulted. I observed that a Frosé was an odd request for such a manly man. Consuela said, “He’s waiting for a table. I’m sure that’s for his wife. Tourists love themselves some Frosé.”
Tourists are also sticklers for the rules. It makes them feel like they are in the know. New Orleans rules cannot be contained in a brochure. New Orleans’ rules are intuitive. You can drink a Frosé out of a glass goblet on Bienville Street. NOPD has better things to do than look out for you.
The same guy came in to order another Frosé. Mere minutes had passed. My thinking, following Consuela’s train of thought, is this he-man tried a sip from his missus, decided he liked it enough to order his own. I asked the guy why he needed two Frosés. Here is how I did it: “Weren’t you just here?” I asked him.
The guy shrugged and offered up a sheepish grin. “My wife’s best friend wants one now. We don’t have fancy drinks like this in Birmingham, Alabama. It sure must be great to live in New Orleans. You folks must drink Frosé morning, noon, and night!”
“It is great to live in New Orleans,” I said. “And, you are right,” I continued, “There is nothing better than a New Orleans Frosé.”
The man said to the bartender, who is an up-and-comer gaining a lot of local attention, “Could you put this one in a plastic cup. My wife’s friend wants to take it home as a souvenir.”
I went back to reading the Wall Street Journal. I will tell you what happened next in a moment. It has to do with my trip to Angelo Brocato.