La Finca Home Plate Inn Resturant

I discovered the Home Plate Inn by accident. I was actually looking for a cheap motel, not a bar. I only went into the Home Plate to use the restroom. Mid-​City isn’t a touristy (or an affluent) neighborhood, and I was a little unsure at first about the the bar’s safety — — — -I wasn’t eager to walk into a bucket of blood-​type joint just to relieve myself. However, there were several United taxicabs parked out in front. Cab drivers may not be one-​hundred per cent mainstream citizens, but as a group they’re peaceable enough, so I figured I would be okay. After I came out of the can I slumped down in a chair — — –I was frazzled. Even though I’d only been in New Orleans for a couple of hours, things had not been going well. I’d managed to drop a wad of cash, a couple of hundred bucks, straight into a toilet bowl in a men’s room at the airport. Then, when I arrived at the lodging place where I’d originally intended to stay, I was unable to locate the manager, to check in. It was dark, I was on foot and the neighborhood wasn’t so hot. Oh yeah, and I had to pee real bad. By the time I reached the Home Plate I needed a moment to collect my wits. I can’t remember much about the Home Plate’s décor. (This happened years ago, long before Katrina flooded the city. The place may not even be in business anymore.) I thought it was just a beer bar until I noticed a menu board on one wall. I was famished, but when I asked the bartender about getting some red beans and rice he told me the kitchen was only open for lunch. He said I could buy a po’ boy at the little market on the corner. There was something about the Home Plate, however, that I liked. I think it was the fact that nobody paid any attention to me. The garrulous crowd at the bar, who obviously all knew each other well, had been carrying on a lively conversation when I came in, and it had continued unabated all the while I’d been sitting at the table near the restrooms. When I travel to a strange city I like to eavesdrop on the conversations of the local populace, whenever possible. So, after I bought my sandwich, I returned to the Home Plate. I bought a bottle of Dixie beer to wash down the sandwich. I specifically ordered Dixie because it’s brewed right in the city. I wanted my first meal in New Orleans to be as authentic as possible. Unfortunately, the beer was awful — — –it tasted like hydrogen peroxide. After a few sips I looked around and noticed that all the locals were drinking pitchers of Bud. So much for local cuisine. (Actually, the po’ boy was better than I’d been expecting. The sad little market where I’d bought it had not looked at all promising. But that’s New Orleans for you — — — even the most unlikely places are apt to serve up a decent meal.) As a travel experience, I thought the Home Plate Inn was pretty interesting. Genuine local color.