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Our night in New Orleans started at Lilette, 3637 Magazine Street, where chef/owner John Harris has received well-deserved adulation for his contemporary French bistro fare. The space on Magazine is airy and typical of the neighborhood, set off by high ceilings, simple décor and characteristic tiny black and white hexagonal tile. The veal cheeks with baby greens and horseradish vinaigrette were a velvety knock-out, but the sweet and sticky fried beef short ribs with hearts of palm and cucumber and lime-ginger vinaigrette were even more swoon-worthy. The steak frites featured marrowed bordelaise and fries so flavorful and crispy I’m forever ruined on French fries, which is a real shame, because I love them. And the Kurobuta pork belly (the Kobe beef equivalent among pigs) was marbled to oblivion and sinfully crunchy on the outside. The dessert of quenelles of goat’s cheese crème fraiche with poached pears, pistachios and lavender honey seemed too simple upon appearance, but was creamy, full in flavor and satisfying. All around, the portions were appropriate, the flavors, complex and layered. The wait staff and sommelier were exactly what you’d want: informative, unobtrusive and kind.

After a less than impressive night at the W in the French Quarter, we were off to breakfast. I hate staying in these big chains, but the charming joints are notoriously restrictive about their two-night minimums and we often only have one night to burn. Sleek or not, this hotel has a goofy habit of overusing words that start with the letter W, as in Wow. You have Whatever you want, Whenever you want it. (Except coffee in the lobby or a quiet room.) When I asked about the pool, our chipper “Welcome Manager” informed me it was actually called the “Wet.” Whatever.

For breakfast, the simply named Eat (900 Dumaine), positioned out of the realm of fanny packs, provided us soothing pain perdu and poached eggs Dauphine with fried green tomatoes, country ham and hollandaise, all for a reasonable sum.