Everyone has a Tropical Isle memory. Usually, it’s pretty fuzzy. This is an unabashed Bourbon St tourist bar that serves ‘Hand Grenades’; you can tell thanks to a subtle marketing campaign wherein a guy in a hand-grenade suit stands outside the bar. Drinking more than two Hand Grenades is usually the kicker to a night that involves screaming the lyrics of ‘Sweet Home Alabama’/’Sweet Child O’ Mine’/Insert Other ‘Sweet’ Titled Song Here, table dancing, bead tossing, bead receiving, the random mashing of tongues down strangers’ throats and the eventual gathering of the limp shreds of your dignity the next day. Woo!