A Syrcls Brunch Review: New Orleans Edition

Let’s face it, the last thing you want to do when you wake up from a long (and possibly regrettable) night out is to get out of bed & cook yourself something awesome to make yourself feel more human again. At least for people like me, who pretty much don’t cook at all, going out to brunch is pretty much your best friend. So that’s why I’m here: to sh\are my tales of urban brunching— tales of caution, and/or tales of awesome.

Earlier this week, I got back from an amazing (and spontaneous!) vacation to New Orleans with my friend, Foxy. I thought I’d be missing Mardi Gras, as I was leaving the Monday prior. Oh, dear, how exponentially far, far from the truth that was. Here’s the thing about New Orleans that I really didn’t understand before going: NO ONE STOPS DRINKING. EVER. Seriously. It’s a 24 hr/7-day a week shitshow.

While that can be kind of cool— everyone’s pretty laid back, no open container law (beers TO GO!), etc.—it can also be kind of a bummer, i.e. any and all sexual harassment is magnified times 5 million, Bourbon St.= Frat Central, shit moves SOO FUCKING SLOW if you want to get shit done, etc. Overall, I had an amazing time wandering around that amazing, culturally rich city, partying my ass off, randomly playing the bongos with legit Cajun musicians, and of course, EAAAATINGGG.

I had brunch my last morning there, directly after a night I had seriously lost my shit on more than a couple of dudes who made some of the most unwelcome sexual advances I’ve ever encountered-- not that I remember specifically, but hey, I’m fairly confident there was definitely SOME good reason I smacked, threw tater tots at, and chucked beads to injure those various fuckers. Not that I’m endorsing that sort of behavior (my specific reactions, that is), but it can be VERY frustrating to be a woman in your mid-twenties who’s drunk, angry, and feeling powerless against the overwhelmingly dick-baggish entitlement some men love to shove in your face at every second of the goddman day, everywhere you turn. Foxy and I did, however, meet some very nice men there who didn’t try to get fresh (we both have our own one particular person on our minds, respectively).

Anywho, at the recommendation of the fine Southern gentlemen we met (um why am I sounding like I’m about 90 years old? Whatevs), we went to a ridiculously picturesque place called Café Amelie. Unfortunately, it was pretty cold (compared to the rest of the time we’d spent there) and windy that day, and the inside was a long wait, so we were forced to eat outside. We were RAVENOUS and RETARDEDLY hungover from the drinks neither one of us paid for the majority of all night.

I ordered the crabcake (on a bed of greens, with citrus drizzle) and a side of potatoes. Foxy ordered the potatoes as well, and for the life of me, I cannot remember what she ordered, but I think it involved seafood. Anyway, if you are in New Orleans ever, seafood is a MUST. I don’t think I’ve tasted anything that fresh since I was in Hawaii a few years ago. The potatoes, however, were underwhelming, and I thought the crabcake portion was a little small, though that could’ve been my own fault for ordering nothing else.

On a nicer day, eating in that garden would have been a complete and utter delight. Take a look at that shit! I’ve rarely seen that level of non-showy combo garden/old building quaintness outside of Tuscany. And though the potatoes and waitress left a little to be desired, I highly recommend this place if you feel like dropping mad bones on a truly good quality brunch in a lovely environment. I think it definitely played a part in saving my mental health from the raging lunatic in my brain from the night before.

Photos by Syrcls