At Pat O’Brien’s, I lead the group through the packed restaurant toward outdoor dining in the courtyard lit with gas lanterns and a flaming water fountain. When Jude tries to sit beside me, Mitchell steals the chair, pushing Jude toward the next seat. Stacy catches the slick move with an eyebrow raise. We sit shoulder to shoulder around the small table, Mitchell’s arm grazing mine. After waiting several minutes to be serviced, we ordered the pub’s infamous Hurricanes.
“Laissez les bons temps rouler,” Jude hollers when the waiter arrives with four large cocktails. The pink drink, steeped in potent amber rum with red passion fruit, served in its signature hurricane glass, is deceptively sweet. Jude wastes no time downing the drink. Ten minutes later, he orders a second round for the table.
