Blount’s trip through the town, which is part of the Crown Journeys series of travelogues written by non-travel-writer writers, is theoretically divided into a series of thematic “rambles” - “Food” is, of course about food, “Wetness” is about weather and geography, “Desire” is about sex - but the book’s divisions, much like New Orleans, are loose and hard to pin down. For one thing, even when Blount tries to stay away from certain topics, they keep popping back up again. “Oysters” is supposed to be, I guess, about New Orleans’ signature shellfish, but all the talk about oysters keeps leading back to, as you might guess, food in general and, maybe only slightly less obviously, sex. So maybe trying to categorize the rambles wasn’t such a good idea in the first place; New Orleans, apparently, is all about a handful of things - water, heat, food, alcohol, music, sex, and odd people - and trying to separate those defining characteristics is simply futile.

It’s good, then, that Blount doesn’t get too uptight as he strolls about the city. He’s willing to let his urges take him where they will, and that’s perfectly in keeping with the spirit of New Orleans. He’s always willing to take a break from whatever it was that he was supposed to be doing in order to stop off for a drink here or an irresistible entree there, a conversation with a crazy character over there or a really funny story right in the middle of everything. His style is folksy in the manner of Twain, an approach that is, maybe, obvious but also completely apt. Twain’s wry observation was honed on the Mississippi, the river that does its part to keep New Orleans damp, and Blount channels Twain into the 21st century as he turns an amused eye on the city’s eccentricities.

That’s not to say that all the self-indulgence doesn’t sometimes go over the top and verge on the nauseating. There’s no doubt that the cuisine of New Orleans is one of its most appealing selling points, and Blount does an unbelievably good job of putting a plethora of flavors, textures and smells into perfectly evocative print. But sometimes he pushes into overload, and even he seems to get bored with the excess. His recitation becomes little more than a stomach-busting list; he writes, “I sing now of the spinach gnocchi and sautČed drum at Gautreau’s uptown. Of the tomato and ginger soup at Herbsaint, in the Central Business District. Of the chicken Rosmarino at Irene’s...” and on and on for more than a page. By the time he gets to the over-hyped fare at Emeril’s and Peristyle, I wasn’t hungry any longer.

Blount runs into similar problems with other New Orleans staples, such as music and insanity. Once you know that there’s good blues to be found on every corner, and a wacky character in every doorway, what more do you need to know? By the end of the short book, all the interesting stories begin to wear on the reader just a little.