CURE

OUR ARTICLE

On screen and in novels, characters have searched the world for it. They’ve even sold their souls to find out where it’s hiding. It’s the cure. Not the kind so hauntingly led by Robert Smith; though everyone is in love on Friday in The Big Easy, no doubt you will be searching for the remedy on Sunday. It’s a golden ticket in a glass to reconstruct a state of mind, a change of pace from the century-old saloons and a cab ride uptown to get it. It’s said under streetlamps, “Once you get inside of N’Awlins, N’Awlins gets inside of you.” And there’s no better place to get some N’Awlins inside you than the Garden District’s Cure.

Fashioned out of an old firehouse, Cure has a side door built in an old archway that once sheltered the red fire engines. Through the glass-paneled tunnel is Cure, New Orleans’s answer to how cocktails should be savored in an atmosphere that is healthful and enjoyable.

“That’s why I live here.” And before a taste slaps the back of your throat, you’ll be wondering why you don’t.

In this city, be it cuisine, music, or drinks, you indulge. Cure aims to rebirth a collective mindset of the past, where indulging can be done with sophistication and grace. Inside is where the pillar of this civility has been fashioned, and their approach is a nod to times when a cocktail was made from medicine and home remedies.

The bar is stacked with bottles in captivating alignment. Each lustrous spirit calls out to any visitor that it and only it is the antidote, the needed therapy for the day. Wooden beams and brick surround the black bar top reflecting the Edison lights like the top of a grand piano. The ingredients behind are the keys of this instrument, and the bartenders the composers of cocktail concertos for diehard New Orleans denizens and visitors of all kinds. This team is as top notch as it gets, and they know a thing or two about making damn fine drinks.

Order up Matt Lofink’s A Die Hard Reference. This Sazerac variation features notes of spiced vanilla, dark chocolate, and peppermint. There are a few well-known grins that exist around New Orleans, and the kind that barman Matt Lofink flashes at you after you imbibe one of his creations is without a doubt the non-verbal proclamation “That’s why I live here.” And before a taste slaps the back of your throat, you’ll be wondering why you don’t.

Music is therapy, so the choice of tunes in Cure is as imperative as any of the ingredients. The decision of what vinyl to drop the needle on for the day sets the synchronization to every sip. For us, it was His Purpleness, Prince. Needless to say, with the healing of Cure, no elevator was going to bring us down.

To the right of the bar hangs a peculiar canvas poster, a scientific diagram of Periplaneta American— yes, a cockroach. Entrancing to a wandering eye, it becomes more interesting with each minute passed. It was hung from the brick the first day the door swung open to the humid air. To us, its meaning is evident: within this simply stunning setting, there is still perseverance and determination. It’s the sentiment of survival, the survival of a city that has a spirit and a culture that will never be silenced. And to survive, in this world of pretentious and fatigued bar concepts, sometimes you need a Cure.