Did I ever tell you about breakfast in New Orleans?


For starters, I’m going to make up points in time because I can’t remember anything. IT WAS DAY 3 of our visit to New Orleans when we woke up hungover and hungry. Armed with a smartphone and flip flops we began our journey for breakfast. I was dressed in a kid’s Rajon Rondo t shirt and yoga pants, repping Boston the worst way I unintentionally knew how. With help from Google Maps we made our way to the highly recommended and rated Mother’s.


From a distance we saw a one hundred person line, no exaggeration. Turns out Beyonce gave her Mother’s recommendation via Instagram. Good for you, Mother’s. Back to the drawing board. We walked past countless mini marts and bogus cafes before standing in front of Arby’s out of pure desperation. The lights were dim and the air was heavy as our eyes glazed over in defeat. Without needing approval from one another, we turned back out to the sidewalk.


Being business students, we began capitalizing on the idea of opening a diner when a yell erupted in the distance. “YA’LL HUNGRY?! WHO HUNGRY?!” A man came bobbing and weaving down the street handing flyers to tourists from his bike. He came whizzing up behind us as we stared in disbelief. “YOU GIRLS HUUUUNGRY? COME FOLLOW ME TO MY HOLE IN THE WALL! COME ON NOW!” The three of us took this as a sign and began following him. His enthusiasm towards other pedestrians made us less weary of his intentions.


That was until we took a couple more turns down an alley. It became apparent we were literally going to a hole in the wall. He hopped off his bike, never looking back, and began wheeling it through an enclosed hallway as we followed. I looked back at Andrea, who looked back at Ariell, who shrugged encouraging us to move forward. The end of the hall had a solid door and through that door came loud conversations, the sounds of a sizzling grill and overwhelming smells of New Orleans cooking. A small dining area greeted us as we made our way through a maze of tables. The menu had various options, but I decided on the pancake special.


“MAM, I hate to tell you, but you don’ wan’ no pancake hunnie take a look at my GRILL.” My eyes peered over the counter to find pounds of searing shrimp . Eggs and grits it is. Food in hand, we found ourselves a table and barely made it through half our plate. Before we finished packing up, in true Boston sports fashion, I heard banter in the far corner. My only response being Ray Allen’s a bitch and we’ll be just fine.

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