New Orleans

Nina Compton’s St. Lucia–by-way-of–New Orleans cooking is the ideal first taste of the city: Creole bones, Caribbean spice, a little Italian technique. The curried goat with sweet-potato gnocchi has been on the menu since opening night and isn’t going anywhere — start there, with the conch croquettes and a rum drink. Polished but easygoing, tucked inside the Old No. 77 Hotel. Exactly right after a late flight.

Do one slow lap with low expectations, purely for the carnival of it — neon, daiquiris the size of your forearm, brass spilling out of every door. It’s gaudy, loud, and entirely itself. A few blocks of people-watching is the right dose before you go find the real thing.

When locals tell you where the music actually is, they mean Frenchmen Street — and d.b.a. is its anchor: a handsome room with a serious whiskey-and-beer list and a nightly lineup that leans brass and trad jazz. Catch a set, then do the only correct thing on Frenchmen — wander. If a band sounds good from the sidewalk, walk in. That instinct is never wrong.

The original riverfront stand has sold the same two things since 1862: beignets buried in powdered sugar, and chicory café au lait. Order three to a plate, make peace with wearing some of the sugar, and don’t overthink a ritual the whole city agrees on. Open nearly around the clock.

The quickest way to make sense of the place — the Spanish architecture hiding behind the French name, the courtyards, the river, the history layered under all that wrought iron. Pick a French Quarter walk and let someone who loves the city draw you the map before you set off on your own.

A 200-year-old landmark with peeling plaster, a green courtyard, and the warm muffuletta that makes the city’s best case for the sandwich. Order one with a Pimm’s Cup, the house drink, and let the afternoon slow down. A few blocks from everything.

One of the great dining rooms in America, barely changed since 1905 — mirrored walls, white linen, tuxedoed waiters who know the regulars by name. The soufflé potatoes and shrimp rémoulade are not up for debate. Loud, festive, and timeless in a way almost nowhere else still manages.

Routinely ranked one of the best museums in the country, and far bigger than it looks from the street — give it the whole morning, three to four hours minimum, starting when the doors open at nine. The personal dog-tag exhibits and the Beyond All Boundaries film are worth planning the visit around.

Four blocks from the museum, Donald Link’s love letter to Cajun country cooking: wood-fired, pork-forward, utterly sure of itself. Fried boudin, cracklins, the namesake cochon with cabbage and cracklin. One of the best lunches in the city, no qualifier needed.

Six miles of shopfronts, coffee, and galleries running right past the door — ideal for an unhurried browse, an afternoon coffee, a little shopping. Or call it after a big lunch, head back to rest, and save your legs for the night.

Trumpeter Kermit Ruffins brought this technicolor corner bar — founded by R&B legend Ernie K-Doe — roaring back to life, and on a good night he’s behind the mic himself with barbecue smoking out back. It’s a true neighborhood club, not a tourist room: come as you are and let the evening take its own shape. If Kermit’s playing, go without a second thought; if not, keep it loose and follow the music elsewhere.

The most famous lunch in New Orleans, and it earns every bit of it — a turreted Victorian in the Garden District where the dining room runs loud with locals and the martinis cost a quarter (three to a guest). Order the turtle soup and the bread-pudding soufflé the moment you sit, because the soufflé takes time to rise. Festive, polished, and genuinely unforgettable.

Friday afternoon is left deliberately empty — and after that lunch, you’ll want it. Wander the Garden District’s oak-lined blocks and above-ground cemeteries, or drift back toward the Quarter for a quiet last evening. You fly out Saturday.