It’s a classy joint. There are white cloth napkins and real glasses. It’s a sharp contrast to the obscene plastic cups of frozen liquor and paper towel grease mops that’ve defined my Bourbon Street experience the last two days. I’m taking a gentlemanly sip of my Sazerac as my appetizer arrives. Boudin balls are fried crisp, stuffed with alligator blood sausage and rice, sort of a bayou arancini.

The upscale nature of the restaurant doesn’t redeem me. I can remember everything about the dancer last night, except her name. I table an interrogation of my post-strip-club self-loathing, trying not to think about it, which only means that I do. I look at my phone and the faces of the other diners, feeling out of place here sitting under the chandeliers, but the rye is helping. I’m used to toiling away anonymously behind the swinging doors, not out here plopped in a padded seat, working through the menu like a critic. I’ve spent eleven of my nearly thirty years working in kitchens, working my way from dishwasher to Sous Chef. The work filled my life with purpose, until fizzling out about two years ago. It’s only been two months since I quit it all to embark on this summer sabbatical, attempting to figure out where it all went wrong, how to make it right. At this point, I shouldn’t be this concerned that I’m not where I belong.

The French influence mingles with the impoverished swamp roots and runs through every stew, every bowl of red beans, each crawfish, and every plate of rice here. There’s something about New Orleans cuisine that reminds me of the simple, yet exquisite dishes simmered slowly by my Brazilian, Mexican, and Salvadorian comrades in the back kitchens of the restaurants where, up until this past May, I used to work. I wonder how those guys are doing. Something about this food doesn’t seem right served on a white tablecloth, but it’s delicious.

Scrolling between courses, I think I should text Annie, but I don’t. The objections to my inaction have been overruled every time that I’ve thought about reaching out to her. I keep reliving the flashbulb image of her confusion, the kissless goodbye. I keep thinking that I will text her as soon as I get back home. I had planned this trip thinking about the places to go, not people to see.

Appetizers give way to gumbo, which leads to etouffee: different combinations of okra, red beans, rice, and pork sausage. I think about the group of worn-out drifters that I passed on the way in here. The rope leash on the mangy dog is the only thing tying any of them down. They looked like the proclaimed future of some of my old stoner friends, a cautionary sidewalk tale. I regret not peeling off some of the money left from last night’s debauchery and filling their cup.

The waiter comes up in his white shirt and red apron. He’s tall, slim, and black, with a clean edged razor fade. His formal demeanor drifts into more casual territory as we’ve gotten to know each other. He now approaches me as a regular, as a friend, asking if I want to see the dessert menu with a seedling of a grin curling in the corner of his mouth as if we’re acting out an old routine.

“Ah, what the hell,” I say with a chuckle.

“Thought you might say that,” he says, taking the menu out from behind his back and laying it in front of me.

I order a slab of pecan pie with vanilla bean ice cream. Sailing past satiation, I wonder if this is really me. I feel like I should be belching, throwing chicken bones over my shoulder, snapping suspenders, and swabbing meat sweat with a white hanky. This is the kind of overindulgence that I both enabled and loathed as a cook. It’s a unique contempt that comes from working in a restaurant that one’s family or oneself can’t afford to eat in, plating the customer’s Tuesday night mid-rare filet while servers fight over leftover French fries. I ate just as much as the swell, leaving a four-diamond hotel kitchen to spend my money on a bursting bag of Chinese food, but I always felt that I had earned it. I didn’t earn any of this. The flights. The hotels. The plates of food stretching my stomach.  Especially the stripper’s obligatory affection last night. What an awful waste of this bankroll that freed me from the service industry and released me onto the road.

When I finish the last forkful of high fructose glory, I lay my napkin on the empty plate, sliding it forward in surrender. The waiter returns with the check, asking first, sincerely, if there’s anything else he can get me.

“Well then, here you go, sir. Take your time. That was impressive. I love seeing a guy who knows how to eat.”

I smile and thank him, shuddering with gluttony on the inside. His compliments land with the emptiness of the stripper’s batting eyelashes. I wonder if he thinks that I’m grotesque, or maybe he just thinks I’ve been diagnosed with a terminal disease or about to turn myself in for a string of grisly murders. I scribble a large tip and get up, feeling the gravitational adjustment in my legs. A twinge of mortification rolls through me, knowing I’ve doubled down on the depravity of last night. It’s indecent, this disgraceful caveman gratification. The waiter can’t show his judgment. The strippers can’t reject me, so my mind evens the score. This is the kind of swirling negativity that I seek to escape out here on the road. This trip was supposed to kick off a summer of readjustment. I’m in a fog of regret as I exit into the sweltering New Orleans afternoon.

I turn the corner, leaving behind the stench of sewage and squander. I drag my knuckles over to the souvenir shop. Soon, I’ll be flying back home. I’ll have to come back to this city and do it right someday. While I’ve checked some boxes, I’ve missed plenty buried in the bosom of the tourist district. I’m not better than this, but I want to be.

I buy a few t-shirts and a tin of alligator meat in the shop. Before I put the change back in my pocket, I remember the crew on the corner with the hungry dog and cardboard sign. I step out and look for the dreadlocked vagabonds. I want to contribute to their rambling, a gesture of good faith to the gods of the road. They’re gone, probably trudging to another corner seeking better profits. I stuff the cash back into my pocket. I hope they get all they need. I’m envious of how little that might be.

– Samuel Tarr