maciek M.
Google
Ah, Loretta. The name alone evokes visions of Southern charm, sugar-dusted nostalgia, and a grandmotherly wink that says, “Come on in, baby.” So naturally, I did. Along with half of New Orleans and a few stray tourists who thought they were lining up for jazz.
The line? Biblical. A pilgrimage of praline disciples snaking through the French Market like it was the last sweet stand before the Rapture. I queued with the faithful, clutching hope and a faint memory of what my legs used to feel like before standing still for 40 minutes.
Finally, I reached the counter. The air was thick with anticipation and powdered sugar. I ordered the rum praline and the coconut praline, two flavors that sounded like they’d been kissed by a Caribbean breeze and blessed by a Bourbon Street bartender.
And then… the taste.
Let’s just say the rum praline whispered “party,” but forgot to RSVP. A faint boozy echo, like someone waved a bottle of Captain Morgan near it and called it a day. The coconut one? Texturally confused. Like a snowball trying to be a candy bar. Sweet, yes. Memorable? Only in the way a lukewarm handshake is.
Now, my wife, bless her discerning taste buds, found them delightful. She described them as “comforting,” “classic,” and “exactly what I wanted.” Which, in our marriage, translates to: “You’re wrong, but I love you anyway.”
So here we are. I’m the curmudgeon in the praline parade, the lone dissenter in a sea of sticky-fingered joy. Maybe I missed the magic. Maybe my Brooklyn-born palate was expecting a bit more bite, a bit more bravado. Or maybe, just maybe, Loretta’s is best enjoyed with a side of sentiment and a heart two shades sweeter than mine.
Would I go back? Only if my wife insists. And she will. I’ll be the guy in line again, composing another review in my head while she hums with praline bliss beside me.