Of all the places in America that bear a legendary status, surely New Orleans is at once the most exciting, and also the most mysterious. Long known as a party capital of the world, it is also the spiritual home of blues and jazz, and also has a rich history and heritage to explore. I've wanted to check this city out for a very long time, so faced with some time off work, decided that the time had come to do just that.

On Sunday morning (just) I embarked once again on my daily search for breakfast. One slight disappointment of New Orleans is that it's not easy to find what I have grown to love as the American standard eggs-and-breakfast. Apart from the fact that Denny's is banned from the French Quarter (as are all other franchise restaurants, and indeed chain stores, thankfully) they do things a little different around here. Breakfast tends to be bacon based, and more often than not includes 'grits' – the single most disgusting product known to man. One breakfast place mentioned in the guidebook has a speciality of 'praline bacon' or 'pork candy' as the chef likes to call it – little bits of crispy fried bacon with sugar and pecans on top. It's probably as well for my arteries that I didn't make the trip across town for that little delicacy.

What I did discover was Andouille (pronounced an-doo-wee – remember that pigeon French?) sausage. Café Beignet, apart from being an outlet for Café-du-Monde's café-au-lait and beignets, does andouille hash browns, which is basically little cubes of potato, fried up with onions, bell peppers and the mercilessly spicy andouille sausage. Fantastic stuff – and perfect to set me up for the hard afternoon's...

... lounging around the hotel courtyard. Lovely. I got my iced tea, I got my book and I got 23 CDs from my Tower records raid to wade through. I ain't going near that Bourbon Street this side of 4pm.

Gallery hopping on Rue Royale

What I will do, however, is knock around the Quarter for an hour or so – this time on Rue Royale – which runs one block South of Bourbon, but feels like a mile away.

Rue Royale is lined with nice little antique shops and art galleries. I swear you could lose yourself for ever in these places. The contrast between the beautiful shop fronts and well mannered staff in these places, and the tourist tack emporiums literally on the other side of the block is incredible – you could be walking around Boston's Back Bay here, with Blackpool promenade just around the corner.

One gallery had a fabulous selection of Tom Everhart pictures. For those who don't know, he's the only artist who is actually allowed to draw Shultz's peanuts characters. I drooled for a while, considering my credit card situation, before deciding that owning a Tom Everhart would necessitate me not having any walls to hang it on. Still, I'd have the most stylish cardboard box on Argyll Street, no questions.

With time coming around to 5 o'clock, I flicked out of culture mode, and wandered North the one block to get to Bourbon Street once more. You'd have thought I'd jumped on Concorde.

St Louis Slim Solo

In 711 Bourbon, St Louis Slim was setting up for his solo set. I say setting up, what I mean is his guitar was on the stage, while he sipped bourbon and coke at the bar. As I entered he was just getting up to start his set. He opened with a 'little song Robert Johnson wrote before he died' he paused, then added 'ah guess he couldn't have very well written it afterwards, could he?'

Slim burned through a good 2 hours of solid delta blues – chucking in a couple of those 'little things I wrote maself' from time to time. They mixed seamlessly with the obscure numbers and the blues staples, each of which seemed to come with a story and conversation with the audience. Particularly the Johnson number 'Milk Cow Calf's Blues' which we reckoned could have been enough material for a two-episode special on Oprah. 'Tonight, on a very special Oprah – my milk cow's milk has turned blue...'. Again, in between sets, Slim mingled with the crowd and propped up the bar. I overheard one person asking if he had a CD for sale. Regrettably he did not.

'Come on', I told Slim. 'There's guys down on Decator who knock out a crap version of Blue Monday, and a couple of verses of When The Saints Go Marching In for the punters in Café-du-Monde – they've got CDs out, and people are buying them. Where's yours?' Apparently there is one in the pipeline. Maybe when I go back he'll have them for sale, but I got the distinct impression it wasn't high on his priority list.

Out of this conversation also came another tip – I'd been told to make sure and see some Cajun music during my trip. I asked Slim what he knew of the Cajun scene, and he recommended a bar named the Apple Barrel – which is on Frenchmen Street, the up-and-coming Bourbon Street for the locals a mile or so out of the quarter. An easy walk, but a safe cab ride. Seemingly a great local Cajun band would be there on Monday night, and I should check it out. Tonight, however, I had arranged to meet up with a couple of the guys from Friday at Donna's, just on the border of Bandit Country. But not before dinner.

Lucifer's Special

Angeli on Ducator is the most dimly lit bar in the world. In fact, it looks for all the world like the sort of place Buffy and the Scooby gang would hang while not out staking vampires. I does, however, have a really nice atmosphere, good music, and the beer's not bad either. The pizza's are well worth having too – they come in various forms, from the 'Virtuous Angel', which is piled high with goats cheese, artichokes, tomatoes and spinach, to my personal choice – the 'Lucifer Special' which comes with various dead animals, peppers and optional jalapeños. Oh yes. Also available is 'Gabriel's Wake Up Call' – Angeli's very own caffeine concoction. You'll get no sleep after one of those, I can tell you. I talked for a while to Luke the barman, who was trying to get punters to guess what the mystery object left behind by a customer was. It looked like a huge plastic syringe. I thought maybe it was something for mashing play-dough in, or possibly a way of administering a particularly lethal cocktail, although I wasn't sure I'd want to drink from it. On the way out Luke gave me a demo CD of his band – 'The Happy Talk Band', who actually aren't half bad. I may need to check them out next time.

So, fully fed and watered, and stripped of all camera equipment and other 'I am a tourist' accoutrements, and all but the bare essential money wise, I embarked on my expedition to Rampart Street – the outer limits of the French Quarter. All I had to do was walk straight up St Ann, past the hotel and keep going until I hit Louis Armstrong park – then I'd be there. Easy.

Donna's Bar and Grill

And indeed it was – like the distance between Rue Royale and Bourbon Street, you'd have thought you'd need a tardis to do this journey in that time, but here was Donna's Bar and Grill. I stuck my head around the door and surveyed the interior. It was dull and dingy – a basic bar ran the whole length of the building across the back; a TV hung precariously above showing a football game from somewhere up north (it was snowing); there was a small stage under the window upon which stood an upright piano and a simple drum kit. A few people ate from plastic baskets on formica tables in the middle. Only the barmaid looked up.

'Come on in, hon', she beckoned. 'What can I getcha?'

A starker contrast I cannot think of between this and Bet Doberman from La Strada. She was about 4 foot 6, but as welcoming as you could want. Mind you, I got the distinct impression she didn't stand for any nonsense on her watch. 'Oh, you're in for a treat, hon' she continued. 'Sunday nights are the best – this gentleman's going to play for us tonight.' She motioned towards a man sat next to me at the bar. He looked up briefly but said nothing.

By the time the band took to the stage, Seth and Dave (from the Friday night crowd) had joined from their adventures uptown. The place had also filled up quickly with regulars and locals, all of whom received warm handshakes, hugs and kisses from the bar staff and Charlie the cook ('You eaten already? Aw, that's a shame, Charlie does the best Barbeque in New Orleans'). I felt like I had really stumbled into a local's jazz joint and was eagerly awaiting the band.

The Shannon Powell Quartet seemed to be a man down, as the drummer and the bass player started a simple jazz rhythm. The kid (he can't have been more than 21) at the piano was dressed in combats and a hooded sweatshirt. But when he started to play that piano, my jaw hit the bar. This kid could PLAY. Like I've never heard before. And when he opened his mouth and sang – he sounded like Stevie Wonder in early 70s mode. I was aghast.

But there was more. They welcomed up a lady from the audience (who put down her barbeque to join the band on stage to rapturous applause) to complete the quartet. This woman had a wonderful, soulful jazz singing voice which just entranced the room. She seemed to cover an impossible range of notes, and even (bizarrely) did an uncanny impression of a muted trumpet when required. I'd never heard music like this before, and I don't honestly believe I ever will again. During the course of their set, they covered jazz, blues, soul and motown numbers – all brilliantly. Every member of the band sang, and performed a solo – without meandering into self indulgence, and Mr Powell himself on the drums showed exactly why it's his name on the bill with the only drum solo I can actually remember enjoying. Ego and pretence seemed to have no place here, just great music and a wonderful friendly atmosphere. Everyone (including myself – the outsider) who approached the stage to put money in the tip jar received applause, 'thank you's' and sincere sounding 'God bless you's' from the crowd. Truly a night to remember. I returned to the hotel grinning broadly, and cursing Bourbon Street as the fraud and the tourist trap it plainly was. I had tasted the real thing now, and no imitation was going to cut it.

Oh, and in case you're wondering. They didn't have a CD either.

The Psycho Chicken

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