Lucky Dogs, Inc.

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History – Starting in 1947, brothers Stephen and Erasmus Loyacano first bravely wheeled their first cart out onto the streets. By 1949, they considered marketing the carts, but reconsidered and turned to franchising or leasing. An advertisement touted the potential for investors: “Cruise the midway. Get around town. You and Lucky Dog follow the crowd.” “A red hot steam job that will roll up profits everywhere you go.” “Steam cooks 100 dogs, buns, and chili. Stores everything for 300 more.”

But by 1952, they had given up on the franchising idea. And in 1970 they gave up altogether and sold the business — Lucky Dogs Novelty Carts, Incorporated — to Doug Talbot and Peter Briant.

After a difficult period of dealing with health restrictions that almost caused the business to fail, they developed a sneeze guard and a fancy hand-washing system that made it possible to continue steaming buns and dogs the old-fashioned way — right in the carts. The rest is history.

Hot Dog History – although the ‘sausage’ is mentioned as far back as in Homer’s Odyssey, it is thought to have originated in Germany, although not without some controversy as to when and where; in the late 1400’s in Coburg or the late 1600’s in Frankfurt. Austrians stake claim as well pointing to the term ‘wiener’ and it’s tie to Vienna [Wien]. If not enough to argue about, more doubt is cast on who and when served the first dog in a bun.

Across the country –
Americans eat 20 billion hot dogs a year.
The New Orleans/Mobile area in 2004 ranked 7th in a top ten list of hot dog eating cities.
Although similar in that they are served from a mobile stand or out of a cart – be aware there are definite differences when buying a dog from the local vendor depending on where you are across the country…

Chicago – served with yellow mustard, relish, chopped onion, tomato slices, celery salt, served on a poppy seed bun.

New York – served with pale yellow mustard and steamed onions.

Kansas City – served with sauerkraut, melted Swiss cheese, and served on a sesame seed bun.

My personal preference is by far the Lucky Dog. This midnight snack, or more realistically 3:00am snack when stumbling along Bourbon Street, is just what’s needed to fuel up for that stretch between 3:00am and dawn..

Honey Island | Pearl River

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Although the alligators are real and the guide doesn’t carry or shoot a cap gun at an angry hippopotamus, the boat is not on a track and we don’t get to see the ‘backside’ of water as we glide behind the pretend falls…the swamp tours still have a little of the Disneyland “Jungle Cruise” feeling. Yes, the alligators are real, but also now know that the boatload full of curious “yankees” means food. No, not the passengers, the guide has a bag of marshmellows, and even that seems to downgrade any fears one might have of these creatures – marshmellows – couldn’t they be thrown some sort of meat? I suppose that a swamp tour without seeing an alligator would certainly be dissapointing – so, I guess this is all done to ensure everyone gets what they paid to see.
History:
Honey Island swamp is unique because it’s one of the least-altered river swamps in the country. It’s pretty much in its original condition, almost a pristine wilderness. The 250-square-mile Honey Island Swamp, nearly 70,000 acres of it is a permanently-protected wildlife area – the Nature Conservancy’s First Louisiana Nature Preserve.
Honey Island earned its name because of the honeybees once seen on a nearby island. A tract of bottomland timber lying between the East Pearl and West Pearl rivers, Honey Island is between three and seven miles wide and 15 to 20 miles long. It is located 50 minutes from New Orleans in Southeast Louisiana.
Tours:
One tip: the smaller the boat, the better. No cover, there is really a lot to see and not all of it swims. Blue Heron, Egret, Owl, Nutria [I believe this South American “rat” is now a State approved meat – much like the mystery meat pies you buy at an Australian sporting event.

Abbey Bar

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I can’t exactly recall how we came upon the Abbey. I know it started with a load of laundry at Check Point Charlie, along with a few beers at the bar while the clothes washed and spun dry. A great idea – laundromat, bar, food, pool tables and live music – all under the same roof [see Check Point Charlie]. We were told that Coop’s Place was where we should go to eat, and since we had to pass the Abbey just a few doors up from Coop’s – I suppose we just walked in. The place isn’t much to speak about, not a bar you’d find listed in any tourist guide, and not an entrance that welcomed one by any means. Decatur Street is not short on available bars, the Abbey was just one of many on one side of the street, there were just as many across the street.

The Abbey is located at the butt end of the Decatur Street pub crawl and has a well-earned reputation as the place for serious drinkers to congregate. Visiting sailors and merchant marines once headed straight for this tiny bar in order to get as drunk as possible, as quickly as possible; these days, it’s a little less divey but still dedicated to the art of power drinking. The bartenders have made no secret of the fact that they’ll match shots with absolutely anyone, and I can atest to the fact that I bought a few rounds for myself, Genevieve and her sister when she was bartending.

Her sister…a beautiful blonde, out of the pages of a magazine. She was our bartender the first couple nights. But sadly, one morning at a coffee shop, she pops in and orders a coffee to go. She said she was on her way to Florida for a few days and we’d be on our way to Santa Fe before she returned. A last goodbye and the realization that stopping off at the Abbey wasn’t going to be the same without her. Yeah, there was Captain John, he lived above the bar, but I’d heard his stories, more than once depending on how long we sat at the bar, and the place is only open 24 hours. Later that evening, our feet automatically knowing the route…we once again found ourselves at the Abbey.

Our new bartender seemed to be the complete opposite of the beauty who should have arrived in Florida by now. After trading straight shots with her and talking about everything from jazz to the World Cup, there was something about her face that seemed familiar. I asked and we learned the two were sisters. Hot and cold, day to night… these two seemed like complete opposites. Like most of the patrons at the Abbey, she had tattoos on her arms, shoulder back, and later showed off her latest – she also reinforced the Playboy monicker “the naked bartender”, as she dropped her jeans revealing her new tattoo and the fact she wasn’t wearing panties… “Genevieve, another shot of Jack, please.”

Coop’s Place

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Coop’s is the place for good food and a good jukebox. On second thought, great food and a great jukebox is a more accurate description.

Who it was or how it was that we were directed to Coop’s Place as the place for food is forgotten. Coop’s, however, will never be. This was maybe our third meal in New Orleans and up till then the food hadn’t been anything that tasted like I’d hoped for, one calendar ratings. Coop’s isn’t listed in any restaurant guide, but after sitting at a table and taking in the surroundings we recognized a couple locals we’d met the day before – a good sign. In walks our bartendress from the Lafitte’s located over 10 blocks away – an even better sign. Eat where the locals recommend is the best rule of thumb, but to see one or more actually eat there too is certainly proof of the pudding.

The Jambalaya Supreme – is just that. I could have had that for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and I don’t recall eating anywhere else. I think we did, but why and where escapes me.

 

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Check Point Charlie

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Where’d that come from? I knew after ordering the beer that the guy behind the bar was one piece short of a puzzle. Drugs, too many for too long… Just order a beer, don’t confuse him with a mixed drink, and don’t ask him what’s on tap. Just say “a beer”, and point to the spigot that he’s standing nearest to – everything should be just fine. Even the simplest thought or idea went in through one or both ears, but where it traveled once insiside his head was unknown. Check Point Charlie was not far from the Lamothe House where we were staying. Out to the street turning right would take us to Bourbon Street, or make a left turn towards Jackson Square, past Charlie’s, the Abbey, and Coop’s Place. Usually it was more of a circle… head down Bourbon Street and rest in the Blacksmith Shoppe, then follow the arc to Coop’s for food, and then on to the Abbey. Later in the evening the process is just reversed.

At any rate we’d done our laundry, sat at the bar and talked to the bartender for a couple hours one morning. We stopped in the next afternoon for a couple drinks and that’s when his world stopped for a brief moment. He was cleaning up bottles and glasses when he just froze in the middle of a sentence. He was staring at the floor, standing frozen with a dish towel in one hand and a glass in the other. I looked left a couple barstools down to another patron who was looking back at me, both of us wondering what the hell was wrong with our bartender. Although time has a way of appearing to move slower than it actually is – this time warp did allow for me to look left at my neighbor, raise my hands to indicate I had no idea what had struck the barman, and then actually lean over to look at the floor to see just what he was staring at… nothing unusual I could see. A glance back down to my neighbor and a shake of my head indicating I hadn’t discovered anything, the mystery freeze was still just that – a mystery. Then barman came back to life – just like that. He just started talking and going about his business as if nothing had occured. Again another glance down to my left and this time my neighbor was shaking his head. I think we just had to reassure ourselves that our world was intact – wherever barman had just gone for that moment in time was not a part of the world as we knew it. Yes, his body stayed behind, so did the dishtowel and glass, but his mind had timed out, his thoughts were elsewhere, and I’m sure he had no idea this had happened. I was about to axe him if he’d found Spock, but on second thought didn’t want him to short circuit.

A couple days passed without having setting foot in Check Point Charlie’s. It is a far better place to visit if you really do need to do laundry, or at night when a local blues band is playing. Genesha [Smiley] our batendress at the Blacksmith Shoppe and Genevieve matching shots with us at the Abbey were our hosts of choice. But this day, on the way to Coop’s for some lunch, we decided to rest our feet after having walked two blocks. We’d introduced ourselves once, three days and 300 drinks earlier, when we first shot-the-shit at the bar. I can say I haven’t a clue, NFI, what his name was, and after witnessing his brain call a timeout, I wasn’t positive he even knew. Most people realize after hearing Wayne’s Aussie accent, he’s not a local, and maybe you might remember alittle something more about a patron, maybe. But on this day…Barman greeted us by our first names as we took our first step in the door. “Hey, Wayne, Dave!” …Where’d that come from? Where’d he pull that piece of memory from? After what I’d seen a couple days earlier, it was like watching the lotto – spin the basket and see what ping pong ball of a thought will pop out. This spin drew our lucky numbers. Well, don’t try to analyze it, just order up… “Two beers, and stick around in our world for awhile”. “huh?, two beers?, stick around where?”, “Damn it!, I’ve confused him!”.

Check Point Charlie
[open 24 hours] is the place to do your laundry in the back, sit at the bar while the clothes spin round, play pool, get a bite to eat, and in the evening listen to local blues bands. It ranks second to the Abbey in patrons with body art and holes in both jeans and tongues, but patrons of one often frequent the other, so because of Genevieve, I rate the Abbey #1.