New Orleans: Food & Cocktail Walking Tour French Quarter

4.91

(806 reviews)

What’s the experience like?

“You can always tell if someone’s from here by how they say ‘praline,’” our guide grinned as we squeezed into Red Fish Grill. I was still blinking off the humidity when the first bowl of alligator sausage gumbo landed in front of us—smoky, peppery, and somehow both heavy and bright. The Cat 5 Hurricane was way stronger than I expected (I could taste the rum right away), but it felt like the right way to start in New Orleans. There was a couple from Houston at our table who’d never tried gumbo before; their faces said it all.

Walking those blocks between stops, you catch little things you’d miss alone—the clatter from Bourbon Street mixing with church bells near Jackson Square, or that sweet burnt sugar smell drifting out of Leah’s Pralines. Our guide (her name was Simone) had this easy way of slipping history into conversation. At Pepper Palace she dared us to try the “Death by Salsa”—I chickened out after one chip, but someone else went red and started hiccuping. We all got a bottle of hot sauce to take home; mine leaked a bit in my bag but honestly that’s just part of it.

The muffuletta at Napoleon House is still living rent-free in my brain—salty olives, soft bread, and that Pimm’s Cup that tasted like summer even though it was barely spring. Simone explained how each wave of immigrants left their mark on Louisiana cuisine; it made me think about food differently for a minute there. Cane & Table’s fried plantains with lime crema were nothing like what I grew up eating—crisp outside, tangy-sweet inside—and the daiquiri was so clean and sharp I actually stopped talking for once just to taste it properly.

I liked that nothing felt rushed or scripted. We wandered down Royal Street past buskers and antique shops before looping back toward where we started, bellies full and heads buzzing—not just from cocktails but from all those stories layered over each other. Still thinking about that last bite of bacon pecan brittle as we walked back into the night air—sticky fingers, happy mess.