Part 5 (2/2)

'Do you mind if I come with you?' he asked gently. Mind? I was thrilled. Not only did it mean I would have a dining companion but also I had just seen John eat. Few people can put stuff away like my dear older brother, but John looked more than up to the task of operating in loco Salami.

The next morning I met John, as planned, at the cafe next to the motel. He wandered in as I sipped on my hot chocolate. Stetson very firmly on his head, and looking ready for the fight.

'Big day ahead of us, my friend', he drawled. 'I want us to hit four barbecue pits before we head home. Are you game?'

Lordy, I had never been more game. I love barbecue anywhere, but Texas barbecue is special because it comes without sauce. 'If you need sauce,'John intoned wisely as he drove, 'then there is something wrong with your barbecue.'

We were heading to a small town called Lockhart, some thirty minutes' drive from Austin, considered by many to be the barbecue capital of the world - a legacy of its past, when German butchers would smoke meat to sell alongside fresh meat tol farmhands and cowboys. We had plans to hit three pits thea then move on to another small town, Luling, to visit one! joint.

'We are going to have to pace ourselves,' John warne pulled up outside Kreuz Market, our first stop, 'or we able to manage all four.'

Kreuz was the most famous barbecue pit. As we entered, i filling up with a lunchtime crowd queuing quietly while elj ladies sliced huge slabs of brisket from large joints or beef ribs to

sold by the pound. The smell was incredible, and John guided i through the ordering of meat along with sides of pickles and i sliced bread. I liked it, but John, the pro, was harder to please. 1 'It doesn't quite have that smokiness going through to centre as it should', he nodded seriously. 'Not bad though, bad.'

We headed back to the car for the short drive to our next ] of call. Black's, a small place whose original clientele, I und stand, were the black community of Texas. As John headed i to collect more brisket for our experiment, this time suppk mented by some meaty sausage links, I went to claim a table.

too was beginning to fill up, and you could see that barbec really is the great equalizer. In the small dining-room weall men in expensive suits sat next to Hispanic farmhands, studec and ordinary stiffs like us. Good Q knows no boundaries. T

sausages were spectacular, with a sufficient bite and the rig amount of spicing.

John was still not happy with the brisket, however. 'It's a liH dry, and there is not enough fat.' He is a hard man to pleas would kill for any place close to this quality in London.

A short hop across the road was Smitty's Market, on the prig nal site of Kreuz. It changed its name because of a feud betwe the surviving relatives of the original owner. The wooden wa are ingrained with the smell of a hundred years of smoke, and! too, it seemed, were the people serving. We ordered more briskc and some ribs and found a s.p.a.ce in the long dining-room, where nerations of Texans had come to eat exactly the same meal, fhe ribs were spot on: strips of fat had rendered to leave crispy trands to chew while you worked your way to the meat. The brisket was good too.^ 'This is the best yet', John said, giving his seal of approval. But I could sense that all was not yet right in his world, brisket-wise. We wrapped up our remains in the butcher's paper in which it had been served and headed to our last port of call. City Market, in the nearby town of Luling. I was suffering by now. Already beads of meat sweats were trickling down my face, and I was not sure if I would be able to face another slab of dead cow. John, however, was made of sterner stuff and ordered an extra-big slab of brisket for us to complete our day.

'Now I am going to show you how to construct a proper barbecue sandwich', he said, laying slices of brisket and pickles between two pieces of bread. I tried to keep up with him, but it was no good, I had to sit back and admire the master at work. He soon polished it off, licked his fingers and said, 'Let's head home'.

I had really hit it off with John, and we talked non-stop on our short drive back to the motel. He parked the car and walked me to my room. As he reached the end of the parking lot, he turned, his body suddenly a round silhouette against the declining sun.

'Thanks for a great day and thanks for the barbecue', he said with one last wave. No, John, thank you.

That night, when Jane had finished at work, she joined me for a last drink and a dish of ice cream from a shop across from the motel. The saddest thing about meeting people on the road is that at some point you have to say goodbye. I was more sad about saying goodbye to Jane and John than just about anyone I had encountered so far. But, as Jane rightly put it, 'You'll just have to come back and eat more barbecue'.

d.a.m.n right.

Simon is Big, and Simon is Easy.

Abandoned by its government and much of its population the apocalyptic events of 2005, many other cities would crumbled. Not New Orleans. Not the Big Easy. It may be struggle, in the face of federal indifference and public fear, bi New Orleans is dragging itself out of the swamps and the fii waters of Lake Pontrachain and rebuilding itself all over agai knew that no visit to the USA could possibly bypa.s.s this resili city on the banks of the Mississippi.

Chris Mcmillian is a fourth-generation New Orleans tender and one of the directors of the Museum of the America! c.o.c.ktail, dedicated to preserving the heritage of mixed drin in the USA. He is a mountain of a man but softly spoken polite in the way that only people from the Southern states, America can be.

'You'll just have to come to see me in New Orleans', instructed when I met him at a bar show in London. 'I ma pretty good Sazerac'

Three months later, as I sat across from him in the Library Bar of the Ritz Carlton, he was busy living up to his promise. 'New Orleans in a gla.s.s', he said in an accent that could not have come from anywhere else.

Drinking a Sazerac is a very pleasurable history lesson. Arguably the oldest of all c.o.c.ktails, its roots lay in the French origins of the city, when it was made with cognac. Now, it is made with rye whiskey, sugar and local Peychaud bitters befc being strained into a chilled, absinthe-washed gla.s.s dressed wr j mon P^^l- ^ great joy. The shght burn of the ' jjjskey followed by the sweetness of the sugar and the citrus of peel- Chris McMillian at the Library Bar makes the best in jjje world.

1 had plans to visit quite a few restaurants while I was in New Orleans, but, wanting some local advice, I asked Chris for more recommendations. 'Well now, I'm not working until late tomorrow', he said, wiping the bar. 'Why don't I give you the tour?' There was nothing more to be discussed.

When Chris pulled up in front of my hotel, the next morning, the bonnet of his big old American car arrived about five minutes before the rest of it. I could already hear the unmistakable sounds of New Orleans jazz filtering through the windows. Chris opened the door, leaned out and drawled, 'Mornin' y'all ready to eat?'

I climbed in, reclined into the luxurious leather seats and let Chris take charge. He loves New Orleans, with a love I had not seen from any person for any city so far on the trip. He loves it in a way that a father who has almost lost his only child can love. He loves it because of and despite Katrina, and he will love it until he finally keels over and is laid to rest in one of its famous cemeteries.

We took the long route to our first destination so he could give me a tour, pointing out the staggeringly beautiful houses on the edges of the French quarter, dating from when the city was still under Spanish rule. Eventually we drew up alongside the waters of Bayou St John and into the parking lot of the Parkway Bakery, famous for serving one of New Orleans's greatest sandwiches, the Po'boy.

As the name suggests, the Po'Boy, or Poor Boy, sandwich was created as a cheap, filling meal for those down on their luck. It consisted of a long roll, dressed with lettuce and tomato and then filled with deep fried chunks of cheap local fish and seafood such as catfish, shrimps and oysters. Nowadays, of course, those ingredients are not exactly cheap any more, but the sandwich has remained a New Orleans cla.s.sic. I warned Chris of my a sion to oysters and let him amble up to the counter to order, returned moments later with two huge cylinders wrapped kitchen paper.

'I went for oysters, I got you a mixed catfish and shrimp' all the dressing. I hope that's OK?'

I had already torn the wrapper off and had taken my first bib There's no denying, this is one of the great sandwiches. The i roll, the crunch of the fish and seafood, which I had driz with lemon juice, and the bites of salad to give a semblance health. We ate in that silence which only middle-aged men i manage, when they know there is something better on of than conversation. We finished our Po' Boys and headed to the car.

T think you need to see what happened', Chris said in a mc solemn tone as we climbed back in and headed in the direct of the infamous 9th Ward. I had been surprised by how nor everything looked in New Orleans in my short time there. Charles Street car was not running and some buildings in Garden District were boarded up, but on the whole it all look in a good state of repair. As we hit the 9th Ward, I saw the re story: row upon row of houses in block upon block of streets ; deserted and crumbling. Every fifth house or so there was empty lot where the floodwaters had extracted the building lik a rotten tooth. Roads had turned to mud tracks, and all the loca businesses were shut.

'It's a dead area. Even if people wanted to live here, there no infrastructure left to support them. No schools, no shops, hospitals.'

Chris parked the car and stared out of the window. Th<l sounds=”” of=”” wwoz,=”” new=”” orleans's=”” radio=”” station,=”” provided=”” eerie=”” soundtrack=”” as=”” we=”” looked=”” out=”” at=”” the=”” devastation=”” of=”” the=”” cit=”” he=”” adored,=”” not=”” repaired=”” even=”” two=”” years=”” after=”” the=”” event.=”” whe=”” we=”” finally=”” drove=”” on,=”” a=”” new=”” tune=”” blared=”” through=”” the=”” speakers=”” -=”” a=”” hybrid=”” of=”” new=”” orleans=”” jazz=”” and=”” latino=”” rhythms,=”” the=”” result=”” of=”” j=”” construction=”” workers=”” arriving=”” in=”” the=”” city=”” to=”” help=”” with=”” rebuilding=”” oining=”” with=”” young=”” local=”” musicians=”” to=”” create=”” a=”” new=””></l>< p=””>

'This is what makes me confident about the future', Chris smiled- 'Whatever they throw at us. New Orleans finds a way to come through it. Now let's go eat some more.' We drove back to the French quarter and pulled up outside Central Grocery.

'Another sandwich?' Chris asked. 'Italian this time.'

The m.u.f.fuletta, unique to New Orleans, shows yet another side to its heritage. This time, the influences are not from France or Spain but from Italy or, to be more precise, Sicily. A ten-inch loaf of Italian bread layered with meats, peppers, cheeses and, most important of all, a dressing made with olives, pickles and enough oil to soak into the bread. It's tasty all right but just too messy for my liking. Impossible to eat without getting oil into places where oil really shouldn't get. Chris seemed to have the knack, though, and polished his off in easy order, wrapping up half a sandwich to take home to his kids.

Chris had to go to work. It had been a fantastic morning, despite the depression of the drive through the 9th Ward. I had only a couple more days left in the city and, enjoyable as they were, New Orleans has a lot more to offer the food-obsessive than just these two sandwiches.

I certainly crammed a lot into those two short days, with breakfast at Brennan's filling me up with turtle soup and eggs benedict before I slurped up a bowl of Susan Spicer's mind-blowing garlic soup at Bayonna. Bags of ultra-light beignets from Cafe du Monde came dusted in powdered sugar that you had to lick off your fingers as you walked and took the fire out of a bowl of crawfish etouffe I had bought to eat on the hoof. Three days in the city was hardly long enough. You could eat three meals a day in New Orleans and not even begin to scratch the surface. But 1 had limited time and, on my last night, just about enough room for one more meal.

Upperline, in the Garden district, had a menu filled with the sort of Creole food that made New Orleans famous, and I put myself in owner JoAnn Clevenger's hands, leaving order.

A large plate of fried green tomatoes appeared, topped -shrimp remoulade spiced up with grain mustard. Half a duck came with sauces made of garlic, ginger and peaches j just when I thought I could eat no more, JoAnn carried large plate of profiteroles on to which a bitter chocolate sauce 1 been ladled. This was my sort of meal - well-made, unapolog food that, because it has never striven to be fas.h.i.+onable, has i gone out of fas.h.i.+on.

I hopped in a cab back to the French quarter and had it dt me off at the beginning of the infamous Bourbon Street. I hadj avoided it until now, remembering the vile perfume of p.i.s.s ac vomit from a previous visit. My memory had not failed me ; even despite the effects of Katrina, it was still filled with frat boys and college girls.

I hurried towards my hotel. As I turned into the street, I hear music, great music. I followed the sound and saw a parade people, young and old, of all races and colours playing ir ments, dancing and having a ball. I joined the party and follov along for a while until, exhausted, I returned to my bedr an hour later than planned. As I got ready to hit the hay, I kr they would still be outside partying for all they were worth, knowing what the future holds for them or the city.

I may not know the future, but I do know one thing. Nfl Orleans may be down, but New Orleans is most definitely out.

Right: Tsukiji Fish Market in Tokyo.

Below: Chanko: enough to feed three people, one sumo or me Making maki sus.h.i.+ with Tomoko in Kyoto.

Eric Balic: evil in eighteen-month-ou human toddler forrv.

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