Written on 6/26/24, 3:30 p.m., during the 2024 New Orleans Writing Marathon, at ‘The Vampire Café.’ Solo writing session.
The sky drips, the sun dries the drips. Rinse, repeat; it’s one of those quirky summer days in the South that’s full of frustration since you just left your umbrella in your hotel room following blue sky, which was preceded by drips—well, you get it.
I’ve been to this bar before. Twice, during separate trips. Once for brunch, and once for late-night drinks. During my late-night visit the place had a darker mood, understandably. Probably helped that on that occasion I’d sat beside a woman who was born not far from Dracula’s castle in Romania.
Whenever you come, you can order drinks by blood type. Today, I wasn’t feeling A Positive (a sparkling pear bellini). Nor did I have the taste for B Negative (vodka, blue curaçao, orange juice, sprite, and two drops of “V,” whatever that is). I almost pulled the trigger on O Negative, which is of course the universal blood type. But I also wasn’t feeling a blackberry mojito. Every fiber in my body was clamoring to go with O Positive, my own blood type. But not only would that make me a shameless homer, I felt it much too early in the day for a mezcal margarita with jalapeño.
I decide on AD: Baileys and cognac. It’s a cool blood type, one you almost never hear of. Besides, it’ll make my own blood a little sweeter should I happen to get bitten by a vampire tonight.
My bartender sees me writing, and peeks at the words ‘Vampire Café’ at the top of the page. She slips me an invitation card to a vampire-themed speakeasy atop Fritzel’s, and a code phrase. I’ll definitely go.
Continued…
6/26/24, 7 p.m., Potions Speakeasy. Holly (and two other marathon writers, names unknown).
I’m here in the speakeasy with three fellow writers from the retreat. I bumped into them after the retreat ended, as I bounded down the stairs of the BK house on my way to find a bite to eat. Holly, and another woman and man, both of whose names I’ve forgotten. They’ll remember our memorable time together. We grabbed a drink at Port of Call, where I suddenly remembered my speakeasy invite, which had a free cover until 7 p.m. $20 apiece afterward. It was now 6:45.
“Let’s do it,” Holly suggested, and off we went. Through Fritzel’s and in the courtyard, per my instructions. Find the monster-dressed character at an unmarked door and give the them the invitation and secret code. We’re here now amid certain confines that remind you precisely of where Dracula would live if he were alive today. Or, at least one of his vacation homes. Dark, luxurious, and filled with plush purple furniture, with witches’ broomsticks hanging from the ceiling, gothic art and decorations, and a piano. There’s a bar, too, and two cats who call the place home. One lay curled on the secret staircase leading up to the bar, the other lounged on a plush, purple divan inside the bar, oblivious to humans and probably vampires, too. Even the bathroom is cool, with a sign reminding employees to wash their hands after they go, and also before they transition back into bats.
Writing together, the four of us are alone at first, sipping cocktails amid haunting new-age music and projections of moons and bats and witches on the wall. It’s the coolest bar I’ve ever been to in New Orleans. And that’s saying a lot.
