Brett Michael Dykes, a writer based in New Orleans, will be writing about the city and the Super Bowl for The Fifth Down throughout the week.  NEW ORLEANS — One of the things I was unsure about going into Super Bowl week was how I’d handle being “the local guy” for a lot of people coming to town for the big event. Having been through this numerous times with Mardi Gras and Jazz Fest over the years, I was inclined to think that I’d handle it flawlessly.  Put simply, I was wrong. Perhaps more wrong than I’ve ever been in my life. That’s how wrong I was about this.  Because I work in media and have become identified with Louisiana among many within the media clique, I’ve been the guy — or one of them — many colleagues have turned to for advice on where to eat, where to go see live music, what off-the-beaten path things they should do, etc.  Don’t get me wrong, I sort of relish being that guy. I’m proud of the place I call home and love acting as an evangelical ambassador for it. And in advance of people actually arriving in town, I handled this very well, thanks to an extensive recommendations list I wrote up a while back that I can easily copy and paste into the body of an e-mail.  But now that they’re pouring in to town, I kind of want to dig a hole in my back yard and bury myself in it.  Take, for instance, yesterday afternoon. I spent most of the day’s working hours doing work things. I had to run around town a bit more than usual, but for the most part it was a normal day. However, starting at around 4 p.m., things began to change.  That’s when I took a colleague looking to do a story on underground gambling to a restaurant known by locals as the area mob hangout to meet someone I thought might know “a guy” who could help my colleague tell his story. My colleague and I had a drink at the bar before I left.  From there, I went to meet another friend in from out of town for “a drink” that somehow turned into three. At some point between the second and third drink we got hungry and ordered an appetizer. Mind you, I still had to meet another friend in from out of town for dinner.  Of course, that dinner turned into a decadent affair — which dinners in New Orleans can easily do, even when expense accounts aren’t involved — and by 9 p.m. I felt like how I’d imagine pre-lap band surgery Rex Ryan felt after a trip to a taco buffet or something.  After a few more drinks I was also a little tipsy. (Thank you, United Cab!) When I finally got home I didn’t walk through the front door as much as I wobbled through it, and I was filled with regrets when I remembered that I actually had work to do last night.  Realizing there is no way I can sustain this sort of thing all week — it was, after all, only Monday — without putting my health and sanity in jeopardy, I decided the best option was to host a little shindig at my house. That way, everyone who’s in town can meet me there.  This is something I’d been thinking of doing anyway for a small group, and will now save me from needing an assistant to keep up with my personal engagements for the rest of the week. I figure I’ll get some crawfish from one of the local seafood guys, maybe whip up some gumbo and etouffee, and everyone will have a good time, while I get to see everyone in one place.  With that said, if Jay-Z and Beyonce call asking me to have drinks with them tonight at Bar Tonique, I’ll be there in 10 minutes.
The view from New Orleans: Taking guests to restaurants and bars can be tougher than a person might think. Maybe a party at the house would be best for all concerned.