New Orleans is already a strange place before mixing in characters of questionable repute like Ron Jeremy. But when in Rome, one should make Rome as bizarre as possible.

I met Ron at Sylvain, a lovely, dark and sultry new addition to French Quarter drinking and dining, where we sat for a bite and a beer. He doesn’t drink much, which is ironic, because we were meeting on the premise of tasting his new rum, Ron de Jeremy. Wearing sweat pants and a t-shirt promoting the spirit, he was waiting with his distiller and PR rep and looking a bit exhausted. Feeling a bit wilted and hungover myself, I ordered a strange combination of local pale ale and beet crostini. He requested a charcuterie plate and polished off every last bite, as well as half of mine (I offered) while alternately playing the harmonica and making penis jokes.

“Did you know ‘ron’ means ‘rum’ in Spanish?” he asked rather earnestly. “And my uncle was a rum runner during prohibition to keep the family alive. So that’s a good connection. Also, my mother was a spy. And my great uncle founded [Upper West Side sturgeon purveyors] Barney Greengrass, but I’ve only eaten there twice.”

Speaking with his hands which waved to and fro as he grabbed fries from his distiller’s plate, Ron espoused bits of random knowledge and bragged about various talents of the sexual and non-sexual variety through out our entire conversation. “I can play the violin. And the piano. Look, I’ll play you a New Orleans song,” after which he adeptly huffed out “When the Saints Go Marching In” on his shiny harmonica. Guests around us gawked a bit. “You know Blues Traveler? John Popper? Good friend of mine. Taught me how to play.”

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