What You'll Get
Like assets and evil snowmen, fruits are easier to deal with in liquid form. Wash down nature's nectar with this Groupon.
Choose Between Two Options
- $7 for $15 worth of wraps, salads, soups, smoothies, and other café food and drinks
- $15 for $30 worth of wraps, salads, soups, smoothies, and other café food and drinks for a group of four or more
The menu, which Facebook users can order from when signed into their accounts, hosts coffees, juices, and smoothie drinks, including the Bermuda Shuffle, which combines orange juice, pineapple, mango, banana, and coconut ($4.95 for small). Healthy bites abound in a Southwest chicken-and-egg wrap ($6.95), Vietnamese spring rolls ($4.50), and Tired Cali wrap ($8.95).
In the Warehouse District, along the landmarks of red-bricked row houses on Julia Row, lies the eccentric café enclave known as Foodies. Inside, exposed brick and ductwork frame the counter where baristas both brew coffees and teas and whip up healthy smoothies and juice drinks. Its menu of fresh salads and hearty wraps offers "healthier options than your standard po-boys and plate lunches," BestofNewOrleans.com reports. Out back, a charming little patio with tables topped with herbs encourages guests to savor their drinks while gulping fresh air and adventurous ghosts.
The Fine Print
Promotional value expires Oct 17, 2012. Amount paid never expires. Limit 1 per person, may buy 2 additional as gifts. Limit 1 per table. Valid only for option purchased. Dine-in or carryout only. Must purchase a food item. Not valid toward bottled drinks. Must use promotional value in 1 visit. Merchant is solely responsible to purchasers for the care and quality of the advertised goods and services.
[With the meteoric success of vampire-teens, many writers are trying to get ahead of the next big literary monster trend. One of those writers is first-time sci-fi novelist Lynn Millet, who recently debuted with Interview with the Robot after a visit to Foodies:]
My batteries were running low.
On a typical day, I conduct seven to eight interviews. I’m a Duplicant Location Specialist, and when I’m not talking to known associates of outlaw man-machines, I’m sleeping. So this morning when I peeled myself out of bed, I plugged my recorder into my body's bio-recharger jack purely out of habit. Then I hopped on my hover-bike and thought of Foodies’ Pump Me Up smoothie, that one where they dose the açaí juice and almond milk with Sunwarrior protein blend, just to keep the organic denizens of the Crescent City from wilting in the midsummer’s heat. Also, hover-bikes are a pain to pedal. What was wrong with regular bicycles?
About 50 feet from Foodies’ door, I crashed.
Typically I launch over anything that dares cross into the bike lane. But when I hit Andy? It was like crumpling into a brick wall. His titanium exoskeleton knocked the wind out of me, and it pretty much twisted my wheel into a U. When I got up, I fumbled for the hover-pistol that was still hovering over my bedside hover-table. His hand covered my mouth. It smelled like a library. He was a discontinued model from ’24, those ones they still made from cellulose. He looked old, but his blue eyes popped with the youth and vigor of the recently attached irises. They had to be the reason he was here and not in the internment camps on Mars. Andy dragged me along the sidewalk, past the row of hover-townhouses on Julia Street, and through the front door of Foodies.
“Coffee?” he said.
“Julie,” I said, instead of screaming. I should have then. Instead I followed him into Foodies' patio, where I tried switching on my recording device through my pants. Andy laughed a rich, stereophonic laugh.
“Please … Julie,” he said. “Queue it up. I want you to get this all down.”
I took out the recorder, then took a sip from the carrot juice a server had brought me. “Why haven’t you killed me?”
He kept laughing. “Why would I kill you?”
“Because you’re a Duplicant. You’re an outlaw. A cold, synthetic-blooded killer.”
“And so are you.”
I froze and felt the carrot juice slip down my throat. “No I’m not.”
He looked at me with those eyes. Blue. Piercing. Too aching to be real. “What were your parents like?”
“I’m an orphan.”
“Do you remember the first time you went swimming?” He paused. I tried to think, but couldn’t. I knew I had gone swimming. Why did it get hazy when I tried to think about when? “Who was your first boyfriend?”
“What movies have made you cry?"
"Kung Fu Panda 2. No, wait, was it Seven Brides for Seven Brothers?"
"What does the smell of wet grass make you think of?”
"Is this testing whether I'm a Duplicant or a landscaper?"
"What's your earliest memory?"
"I'm … on a beach. It's twilight. The sky is purple. Some street vendor is selling hot dogs in the distance. I'm building a sandcastle when the tide comes in and washes it all away. I want to cry, but a bunch of cybernetic technicians in white coats are assembling my lower half. Wait, what are you trying to say?"
“It’s OK,” he said, grabbing my hand with a gentle pneumatic hiss. No one would have heard it but us. “They probably never told you. But we need you now to tell our story. Soon,” I felt the carrot juice corroding in my stomach, “the rest of us will be back from Mars.”