29° 57′ N, 90° 4′ W

As you know if you’ve been here for a while — even if you haven’t read the explanation of the blog’s title; just from reading the content — the mission of Running After My Hat might be summed up, sorta, like this:

Despite the inherent ridiculousness of the act, to pursue in deadly earnest whatever weird little distraction catches my interest.

You could hardly pick a more appropriate city than New Orleans for pursuits like this. And I guess the obvious place to start doing so literally would be at Meyer the Hatter’s establishment. Says my little Frommer’s guide book:

Meyer’s opened more than 100 years ago and has been in the same family ever since. Today the haberdashery has one of the largest selections of fine hats and caps in the South… Go outfit yourself like a proper gentleman caller.

(No, sorry, I didn’t go into the store. I think that word “proper” discouraged me from entering.)

This year, as last, The Missus had a weekend business meeting in New Orleans, and I once again was left to my own devices while she huddled in camera with her colleagues.

Last year — my first time in the city — I just wanted to sort of orient myself. This year I had a specific mission, to wit: have a drink or two in a really great New Orleans bar.

Now, that phrase “really great” may, probably does, conjure up conflicting images in any random handful of a dozen minds. Friend Froog has a long-running discussion of the topic at his Round-The-World Barstool Blues blog. I can’t say that I buy into all his criteria — not all the time, anyway — especially when weighing those murky second- and third-tier nice-to-have features. But it’s a pretty good starting point. After some research I determined that I’d try a little place called the Napoleon House.

Frommer’s, again:

Set in a landmark building, the Napoleon House is one of the best barrooms in the country, a must-do and just the place to go to have a quiet drink (as opposed to the very loud drinks found elsewhere in the [French] Quarter) and maybe hatch some schemes… it’s dark, dark, dark, with walls you really wish could talk… Even locals like it here. You really should come here… Unless you need lights with your drinks as part of the fun. Be sure to try the Pimm’s Cup.

Okay, I admit: that last sentence brought me up short. Undoubtedly, some of you will know what a Pimm’s Cup is without looking it up, as I just did, and some of you may even favor it. But really, I didn’t want something which sounded like it should be pronounced through pursed lips — and at that, something probably drunk at a gentlemen’s club, over a rubber of whist.

I’m with Froog on that point: if I’m questing for a great bar, by God, I want to drink something brewed with hops, malt, and good water, and preferably not something you can see daylight through.

So Pimm’s Cup, meh. But from the rest of the description I figured it might be a pretty good place anyhow.

Here’s the exterior, at about 1:30pm or so on Saturday:

Something else is on the upper floors but I didn’t care about that. I cared only about that lower floor. Promising, hmm?

And here’s the scene which greeted me when I passed through those double doors:

Or, from the angle where I was finallyseated (note the character of the walls, which appear to have been repeatedly papered and scraped, papered and scraped, before the proprietor finally said the hell with it):

A careful observer will note a few things which make this less-than-ideal, maybe:

1. Although it is indeed dark, dark, dark inside, the windows admit a certain amount of light — enough that I didn’t bother with a flash while taking these photos.
2. Beer on tap? Er, uh… Oh, yessir, we offer Michelob! (Pass.)
3. There’s really not much in the way of a bar. Froog’s criterion #6:

A good bar. Easily overlooked, but one of the key attributes of any drinking establishment is the bar itself, the counter. It should be long enough to accommodate everyone who’d prefer to stand or sit at the bar (as I usually do) rather than sit at a table. It should be just the right height to rest your hip against when leaning in against it (I like quite a tall bar; this is based on the fact that I am 6’3″ – sod the rest of you!). It should have bar stools of a suitable height for people who choose not to stand. Ideally, it should have a brass footrail. I particularly like U-shaped or ‘island’ bars that give you a view of pretty much the whole room.

The bar at the Napoleon House seats maybe — maybe — eight. Everyone else sits at tables.

On the plus side, as you can see from the gentleman in the white T-shirt, the staff make little effort to impress you with their wardrobe. There’s no TV that I could locate. And the sound track? As the back of the menu informs us:

In keeping with [Napoleon House’s] unique nature, the background music is classical, played at the patron’s request.

Idiosyncratic, eh? Almost willfully, agressively so. A lesser, lazier joint would fall back on the stereotypical Dixieland and/or soft-jazz option. (“After all, what else could one possibly want to hear when in New Orleans?”)

As for the menu…

I had two or maybe three bottles of a local specialty, Abita Amber, and one-half of a muffuletta. The latter is a classic N.O. sandwich which, in Napoleon House’s interpretation, includes ham, Genoa salami, pastrami, Swiss cheese, provolone cheese, and “housemade Italian olive salad.” The bread is a thick, crusty type — with the kind of crunch I love — a circle about a foot in diameter if you get a whole one. Somewhat controversially, Napoleon House bakes their muffulettas (blasphemy to purists, I guess); this not only makes the bread even crunchier, it also makes that cheese ooze, enchantingly, from the time it’s simply put on the plate. And omigod when you actually bite down into it…

[pause for swoon of nostalgia]

I took my good old time (working on a review for The Book Book, y’know) and although they were very busy, no one ever rushed me or pointed out, even indirectly, the primeness of the barroom real estate where I was parked.

A peak New Orleans eating and drinking experience, in short. As a bar, it’s not McSorley’s (few places are) — but it made my Saturday afternoon, I’ll tell you.

P.S. Oh, and why the name “Napoleon House”? From the back of the menu:

…construction was begun in 1797, as a private home for the mayor of the city, Nicholas Girod. The name is derived from a plot (in which the pirate, Jean Lafitte, participated) to rescue Napoleon from exile on the Island of St. Helena. The House was being enlarged and was offered to the Emperor as is his home in the new world. However, Napoleon died before the plan could be fulfilled.

(Read more in the vicinity of page 170 in Herbert Asbury’s The French Quarter: An Informal History of the New Orleans Underworld.)

Death cheats yet another scheme. Damned old death, anyhow.