I swore I wouldn’t go into the Quarter–especially not Bourbon, with all its touristy kitsch. But promises can either be helpful or they can be chains. So we break the rules.
Woke up, slammed a coffee, and got right to it: trailering Dotty for her trip to Cincinnati. After that, we owed ourselves something good. Enter Clover Grill, not only in the Quarter but right on Bourbon, with its 24-hour night-after-partying vibe and a greasy breakfast burger that hit just right.
And then, fuck it. Brooke, who we met at BJ’s in Bywater, told us she worked at Erin Rose, just a few blocks down. So here we are, walking Bourbon by daylight–not awful yet, decent music, not fuck-all crazy. Jazz spilling out of Fritzel’s from a few familiar faces from Frenchmen, decent Cajun tunes from a club on St Peter.
But by 3pm, the energy shifted. Bourbon started heating up in that particular way it does–frat boys, daiquiri towers, and street-funk desperation. Time to get the fuck out.
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