Hansen's Sno-Bliz

On simple things.

The first time I went to New Orleans, it was at the tail end of a breakup I didn’t want to happen. I feel like we’re both on a train to New Orleans, and I want to be there someday, but I have to get off, he’d said. This was a stupid metaphor—as drawn out as the end of our relationship—and yet, when it was finally, really over, I went to New Orleans alone, and sent a postcard that said WISH YOU WERE HERE.

I wanted to be sad, but instead, I had a great time. I walked all over the city with a little guidebook a friend had given me, a map marked with stars on the places they’d been, and an index card tucked between the pages, on which they’d written their recommendations. One of those was Hansen’s Sno-Bliz.

Wish I was here.

Back then, Hansen’s had been open for 75 years and now has been around for 84, run by the same family—first Ernest and Mary and now one of their granddaughters, Ashley. I was just there again this past weekend, and it was the same as I remembered—part of its charms, I’m sure, all these years. 

Hansen’s serves one thing—a sno-ball, a fluffy concoction of shaved ice and syrup and, if you’re me, at Hansen’s, topped with condensed milk. This is a thing that is of New Orleans, but also other places, replicated in some form as a shave ice and raspado and the humble snow cone [derogatory]. Hansen’s does it particularly well. Mine are the least of the accolades they’ve earned over eight decades.

So, I’ll return the simple favor my friend did me so long ago. If you find yourself in New Orleans, go to Hansen’s. I don’t often advocate standing in a long line for a food item, but it’s worth it. Please send me a postcard when you do.