Everyone travels to New Orleans with a meal in mind.

For some, it’s a dozen raw oysters and bottle of beer at ACME Oyster House. For others, it’s the catfish courtbouillon at Cochon. For Steve and I, it’s the muffuletta we pick up at Central Grocery on our way to the airport and share as we fly back home.

We made our ninth visit to the Crescent City a few weeks ago: Steve had an Urban Land Institute meeting focused on food and development and asked if I wanted to join. I went for the same reason I always do: to experience the city with an open mind and open mouth.

We arrived on Sunday morning and I was overcome with a craving for pompano almandine, so I convinced Steve to go to Gallatoire’s. We were seated next to a couple who’d been going there every Sunday since forever. The waitress knew exactly what to bring without even asking. Determined not to be a creature of habit, Steve ordered a bourbon milk punch — he’s usually a Campari and soda man — loved it and said his broiled tomatoes were the best he’d ever had.

After lunch we strolled up Magazine Street, taking in the boutiques and galleries along the way. At some point, my shoes and feet had a painful disagreement and I had to buy new shoes. When I came out of the shop wearing Keds slip-ons, Steve just looked at me. Forget vanity, I told him, my feet are killing me.

We walked all the way to La Petite Grocery, where we had beautiful ricotta dumplings with hen of the woods mushrooms. Light as air.

Steve had Monday morning free, so we had lunch at Peche, which won two James Beard awards — Best New Restaurant and Best Chef: South — in 2014. And believe me, they deserved it. Every single mouthful was amazing. We had fresh oysters, fish sticks, fried Brussels sprouts with chili vinegar and sashimi tuna with pickled wild mushrooms, arugula and a vinaigrette that must’ve included some form of crack. If I had to do it over again, I’d order two of them.

That night, as part of the conference, Steve had dinner at a private home cooked by John Besh. I was not invited and may have pouted about that a bit. I so enjoyed John when he visited for the Southern Chefs Series.

I made plans to meet up with Rosie, one of Kara’s best friends who’d moved to New Orleans with her family. We originally planned to have Vietnamese, but I decided that if Steve was eating John Besh’s food, then I would too, so I made a reservation at Lüke. I texted Steve to tell him I was pining away but consoling myself at Besh’s brasserie.

Rosie and I made a progressive dinner of it and started at Mopho, where Michael Gulotta, former chef de cuisine at Besh’s August, makes some fantastic spring rolls and popcorn rice.

When we got to Lüke, they took us to a table right by the kitchen and treated us like royalty. Turns out, Steve told John Besh I was headed to one of his spots and he called ahead. We shared oysters, I had gumbo, Rosie had pate and a salad and we were too full for the pork schnitzel I wanted to try. When the bill came, it said, “too beautiful to charge.” If I couldn’t have John cook for me, I certainly had the next best thing.

By Tuesday morning you’d think I’d had enough food to last me a week, but I woke up hungry for an adventure. I got our muffuletta at Central Grocery and took a cab to St. Claude Street. At the conference, Steve learned about the St. Roch Market, seafood market that shut down after Katrina and had been re-launched as a food hall.  It was exquisitely done, with a bar, coffee shop, oyster bar, juice bar, produce market and Korean-Creole spot where I had a fantastic bibim bowl.

Followed by a muffaletta.  Oh New Orleans. Something about that city just does not inspire moderation.