Eating Gator Nachos in New Orleans

New Orleans had been sitting on my travel wish list for years—this magical, music-soaked city full of grit, soul, and spice. And let me tell you, it did not disappoint.

The minute I stepped off the plane, the air felt heavy in that swampy, sultry way that only the South can deliver, like the city was already whispering, “We’re gonna have fun, darlin’.”

Unfortunately, I wasn't able to get the full Mardi Gras experience due to the timing (Thanks, Covid). The streets were a bit sparse to say the least, on top of the weather turning against us. BUT we did get to see all the floats that had been made up close, in-person.

Naturally, my first instinct was to eat something wildly unfamiliar. That’s how I found myself sitting in a buzzing little joint in the French Quarter called Mambo's, staring down a plate of frog legs and gator nachos, wondering if I’d lost my mind—or just finally come to my senses.

I picked up a frog leg first, bracing myself for a texture nightmare, and took a bite.

Chicken. It tasted like chicken.

A little leaner, maybe. A little more… amphibious, if that makes sense? But still—chicken. And not bad. The outside was crispy, the inside was tender, and somewhere between “I can’t believe I’m doing this” and “wait, is this actually good?” I realized I was kind of into it.

The gator nachos came next, piled high with cheese, mushrooms, and little fired chunks of what looked like shrimp nuggets but came with a side of reptilian pride. I hesitated. Took a bite. Chicken.

If you told me I was eating some adventurous free-range thigh meat from a backyard coop in the bayou, I would’ve believed you. Slightly denser, maybe a touch chewier, but it wore the seasoning well and disappeared fast. If anything, I was disappointed by how not weird it tasted. My imagination had made it way scarier than it actually was.

Then the weather hit. Hard. Some freak cold snap rolled through, and suddenly New Orleans, of all places, was freezing. Like, “emergency alerts telling us to stay indoors” kind of freezing. We were wrapped up in hoodies and blankets inside our airbnb, looking out at Bourbon Street like it had betrayed us. The locals said they had never experienced weather this chilling in decades. We are talking full lockdown for 24 hours because it was too cold to go outside.

But we were in New Orleans. We weren’t about to let a little Southern snowstorm kill the vibe. So we did what any fun-loving, silly group of girls would do—we adapted.

Next door to our Airbnb was a bachelor party, and let’s just say… we crashed it. Or maybe they invited us in, or maybe the walls were so thin that our parties sort of merged on their own. Lines blurred. Music got louder. And somewhere between the dance-offs, we convinced the groom’s friends to strip and give us their money.

No shame. No regrets. Full chaos. And full bills in our bras.

We laughed until our faces hurt, made memories none of us were ready to explain, and turned a weather lockdown into the most random, unforgettable night of the trip. No beads were earned, but plenty of stories were.

Somewhere between frog and gator, hot sauce and hailstorms, bachelor parties and body shots, I realized New Orleans wasn’t just about the food. It was about the feeling. The way music spills into the streets like it belongs there. The strangers who talk to you like you’re cousins. The air, the mood, the heat (even when it freezes), the heartbeat of it all.

Trying frog legs and gator was just the beginning. Between boating in the swap, to feeding wild raccoons, and exploring haunted hotels New Orleans created the stories I got to bring home and remember forever.