Erika, her mission accomplished, takes her leave. The long stumble back to the hotel is leavened by the satisfying sense that journalistic rigour has been duly rewarded. But it soon becomes evident that something is terribly wrong: The Spotted Cat is on the wrong side of Esplanade Avenue, unambiguously outside the French Quarter.
The Quarter is quiet on the walk home, until a “jazz” bar is passed where drunken and tone-deaf revellers belt out “Piano Man” at the top of their lungs. This, it seems, is what tourists want the French Quarter to be—not jazz, but Billy Joel; not absinthe, but blended drinks. The quest is over, the claim of authenticity thoroughly debunked. There is much in New Orleans that is authentic, but it is not to be found in the French Quarter.
