Hubig's Pies: After the Fire
"This must be where pies go when they die."
So I Drifted Down to New Orleans
You might notice the bartender at your favorite spot is AWOL this week as it’s very likely they’ve decamped to New Orleans for the 20th anniversary of Tales of the Cocktail, an annual conference that attracts bartenders, journalists, distillers, and hospitality professionals from around the world for five days of seminars, tastings, workshops, tours, dinners, award ceremonies, and plenty of spirited parties.
But another New Orleans event that will be remembered this Wednesday is the 10th anniversary of the five-alarm fire that destroyed the Hubig’s Pie Factory, a New Orleans institution, in the early morning hours of Friday, July 27, 2012. I arrived in New Orleans for the first time the day before the Hubig’s fire as my book Bitters was up for a Tales of the Cocktail Spirited Award (there would be no James Beard/IACP/Spirited Award Triple Crown for me as Jim Meehan’s The PDT Cocktail Book took home the hardware that night).
As a drinks writer I should be attending Tales without fail but I’ve only been one other time since then. The primary reason is that the heat and humidity of New Orleans in late July makes me weak as a kitten. Great for cheaper hotel rates. Bad for husky men with red hair. I have never experienced anything like it (even August in NYC). And then the sky would open up each afternoon around 4 p.m. for a half-hour thunderstorm, which only made things hotter and stickier. I was miserable.
After checking into my hotel and picking up my credentials I started with a Vieux Carré and a spin on the revolving bar at the Carousel Bar and Lounge in the Hotel Monteleone then spent the rest of the day exploring and eating my way around the French Quarter. After a scheduled event at Cure I stopped by my hotel to clean up before dinner. I still remember seeing my dear friend Rocky Yeh in the lobby. I knew him from my time living in Seattle and he gave me a bear hug and complimented my throwback Mariner’s ball cap. We miss you, Rocky.
Later that night I walked to Cochon for a solo dinner at the bar (there was even a copy of Bitters on the backbar). I let the gracious bartender steer my ordering and soon plates of wood-fired oysters with chili-garlic butter, a charcuterie board, and a smoked pork chop landed in front of me. On the walk back to the hotel I stopped to listen to an energetic young brass band playing in front of a drugstore on Bourbon Street. I threw some bills their way and then stepped into the drugstore to get some snacks for the hotel. When I’m traveling I love to wander around grocery stores, especially the ice cream and potato chip aisles where you can find some of the best variety of regional offerings. I knew that pint of Creole Cream Cheese ice cream would melt as soon as I walked outside so instead I picked up what would be my first, and would turn out to be my last, Hubig’s Pie.