Well, I live in the tropics and New Orleans is — allegedly — where the cocktail was invented, so it is hard to pin favorites down. BUT:

I love a Pimm’s Cup, which is the house specialty at the Napoleon House here in the French Quarter. (The bar is so named because the original owner offered it as a refuge to the exiled Napoleon in 1821. He died before he could make it, but the place is still a sort of shrine to him. What no one can explain is the irony of the fact that a British drink is featured here since Napoleon literally met his Waterloo at the hands of a British commander. But it makes drinking them slightly more interesting.) The Napoleon House is remarkably cool, even in summer, which I think has a lot to do with its crumbling plaster walls and high, high ceilings, and the fans that push the air around between the wall of French doors and the courtyard. Anyway, the place is utterly timeless and it is heaven to drop in for a refreshing Pimm’s, which I do anytime I’m in the neighborhood.

I discovered a Pimm’s Royale in Paris at the Ritz Bar, where I repaired after abandoning my almost husband on our sort of honeymoon. I had called off the marriage at rather the last minute, and we already had this elaborate trip to France all paid for and planned, and as the man in question was in a bit of denial he asked me if I would still take the trip, and since I stupidly didn’t want to hurt him further, I said yes. So by the time we had made it through Paris and Lyon I was slightly losing my mind. I called my good friend Andre Leon Talley and he wisely told me, "Get your lily-white ass on the fast train" back to Paris, and to meet him at the Ritz Bar at 5:30. Well, he was late, and I had one Pimm’s Royale, which is topped with Brut champagne rather than lemonade, and garnished with the classic cucumber, but also orange and mint and a brandied cherry. So I finished one and ate the cherry and it felt like the back of my brain was sort of taking off and I thought I had better only have one more of those. But then Andre arrived and we drank them for many more hours and all sorts of people dropped in at our table, from Arlene Dahl to Madonna’s bodyguards (she was staying in the hotel). It was totally wild and so much fun and cost more than any other bar bill I have ever paid since, but it was worth it. By the time the would-be husband arrived with his sister, I was happy to see him again. The hangover the next day, on the other hand, was possibly the worst I have ever had, but the Ritz is not a bad place to be hungover, as they bring lots of dry toast and broth and fizzy water and tomato juice on vast silver trays.

I also love:
Gin and Tonics — there’s another place in the French Quarter called Bar Tonique, which makes its own tonic and it is divine. Commercial tonic water in this country has gotten ever sweeter and more awful and when I drink this stuff, I imagine it might taste like the first gin and tonic in India. It also makes me feel as though I might actually be keeping malaria at bay — though that would take more than even I could put away.