Mulate's: not bad; Patois: Not good. Day 1 in the Big Easy.

OK, so, I arrived fresh as a rose off the airplane in New Orleans (Louis Armstrong Airport no less, how cool?) - after flying over the gulf with oil slick globs looking quite artistic from 10,000 feet - and was met with stiffling humidity and heat as I hit the exit.  Into the city.

First meal - Context: I had no time, was rushing between airport, hotel, convention center where I was speaking (hah) and chairing a session, etc., but had to have some chow after having had little except peanuts (actually quite good) on SouthWest.  I spy Mulate's (a lie, I'd looked up places between my hotel and the CC long ago) and enter, thinking this place is a tourist trap, and I'm gonna hate it?  Right and Wrong.  It was full of what my friend A. calls "visitors" but the food was not half-bad.

For numerous reasons (one being that my pigeon brain recalled that American portion sizes were Supersize Me plus 5), I had just one course, a main - a so-called 1/2 of fried crayfish (aka crawfish aka ecrevisses) and 1/2 of crayfish (aka crawfish aka ecrevisses) etouffee with rice, fries and veggies (in honor of Colette).  The latter crayfish (aka crawfish aka ecrevisses) were spectacular, the former crayfish (aka crawfish aka ecrevisses) quite good.  PS: I finished maybe 20% of it before I decided that my heart, my blood vessels and my gut were not worth upsetting chef.

Bill, with a glass of, I thought, very nice (local) Abita ale was $27.15 before tip.

Onward.  Dinner at a place recommended to me by two trusted N'orleans friends of at least 30 years - Patois - in the "quarter" (misquoting JP Morgan, if you have to ask which quarter, you can't afford it).  Arrive, greeted warmly, seated warmly, treated warmly.  Look at menu.  Hummm.  Firsts look good, mains are gonna be too much.  Ask for dessert menu, nah.  OK.

It's all Colette's fault.  I didn't bring my camera from France because she graciously offered to lend me hers and I'm still getting used to it.  But this was a really good gumbo, smoky and spicy, of rabbit, andouille, greens, rice and chopped scallions; I said to myself, Johnnie you've got good friends.

OK, so I had ordered two other starters, instead of one main, figuring firsts (in France) are always winners; Wrong!  This (above) was supposed to be sweetbreads on beluga lentils (whatever they are) with wilted spinach in a country ham reduction (whatever that is).  The sweetbreads were over-cooked to a dry cadaveresque ending, the lentils so crunchy as to be be perhaps not cooked at all and only the spinach survived.

Alors.  The sizzling octopussy with oranges and radishes and Kalamata olives and mint - sounds great, eh?  Indeed.  The octopus was as tough as a rock; if they had had the poor plongeur chap beat the sh*t out of it, as much as they chopped/sliced the olives, this dish with incongruous slices of oranges, might have worked.  But alas, it  didn't.

My bill, with two glasses of a fine Malbec (kudos for the wine selections) but homemade bread, less great than the industrial (I assume) at lunch, amounted to $54 before tip.

Now you tell me about price-quality.