Editor's note: With Opening Day arriving Thursday (and the Houston Astros starting their season a day later at the powerhouse Phillies), CutureMap will be running stories all week that highlight the national pastime. What better way to start then with another series from our traveling baseball fanatic.

Jeremy Little attacks spring training as only he can.

In honor of the ninth-month anniversary of our “once in a lifetime” baseball road trip (which was chronicled in a nine-part series for CultureMap in June 2010), we decided to do it again. This time during spring training in Orlando, where we planned to see the Atlanta Braves, Washington Nationals, Boston Red Sox, St. Louis Cardinals and Houston Astros in preseason action.

Last summer my buddy Dabbo and I covered more than 2,500 miles in nine days, driving from Houston to Milwaukee, then across the Great Lakes region visiting nine stadiums and catching five games before our finale between the Astros and New York Yankees at the new Yankee Stadium.

We assaulted our arteries with $1 hot dogs at Progressive Field in Cleveland, made a pilgrimage to the Budweiser Brewery in St. Louis, tracked down an elusive Dunkin’ Donuts in Milwaukee, stayed in a seedy brothel masquerading as a Motel 6 in Elkerton, Md., and mocked our fellow Americans throughout the trip with a game we like to call “Douche / Not a Douche.”

This year Dabbo, our buddy Doogie, and covered the nearly 1,000 miles from Houston to Orlando, then sat by the pool between games while I pretended to get a tan. No, it’s not as ambitious. It’s spring training.

Because this was technically a bachelor party, I’ll only be sharing what happened outside of the brozone, not because I’m particularly faithful to brocode, but rather because I’m fairly certain that Dabbo’s fiancé will crush my windpipe with her Truckasaurus-like kung fu grip if I embarrass him.

Our first stop was in New Orleans, which still seemed to be reeling from Mardi Gras. Like Las Vegas, New Orleans is such an assertive part of Americana, nothing about it was surprising, except maybe the smell. Let’s just say I won’t be making fun of New Jersey for a while.

After a few hours of encouraging drunk frat guys to hurl beads at girls who wouldn’t touch them with oven mitts on, we decided to toast to our trip and Dabbo’s impending nuptials at a New Orleans (and Houston) icon . . .

THIS IS THE ORIGINAL BRENNAN’S? REALLY?!

Sequels are notorious for being dumbed-down, cash-grab imitations that rarely capture the magic of the original upon which they are based. Much to my amazement, Brennan’s managed to flip the script.

Brennan’s of Houston is, without a doubt, one of the finest dining experiences in the continental United States. A meal at Brennan’s of Houston is an event, executed by its superior staff with ninja-like precision. When you dine at Brennan’s of Houston, you feel special.

When you dine at the original New Orleans Brennan’s, you wonder how it warranted a sequel in the first place.

I hate — and I mean absolutely hate — writing this about Brennan’s because I was so excited to experience the original, but I feel like I was mugged. Keep in mind that I have a deep reservoir of sympathy for folks in the food service industry. I rarely ever complain about an isolated dining experience (everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt), but by the time the original Brennan’s was done violating my credit card, I wanted to turn around and go home.

Brennan’s misfired on pretty much every front. The service was slow and disinterested; the mouth-breathing patrons weren’t fit for IHOP; the chintzy, laminated menus were a better fit for Bennigan’s; and the Turtle soup (usually a religious experience) was bland and under heated.

Dabbo and I each ordered steaks that were cooked to utter perfection, but were then marred by the sort of uninspired, too-safe side dishes you might get on an international flight . . . sitting in coach. Jay’s “Creole” shrimp entrée, on the other hand, was an utter failure. From what we could gather, it was a pile of shrimp cooked in canned tomatoes.

After a few moments of grade school arithmetic, we calculated that each shrimp cost about $6. And the scoop of ice cream that accompanied Brennan’s signature Bananas Foster — which was prepared across the room instead of tableside (so much for showmanship) — had all the rich, soft creaminess of a jai-alai ball. I’m pretty sure I chipped a tooth.

At the end of the meal, our barely post-pubescent waiter scurried by to collect the signed guest check as though it were on fire. Judging by his ill-fitting faux tuxedo, his prom date was sitting on a curb somewhere wondering why he was late. The staff even started organizing flatware at an adjacent table before we were finished eating. I can’t imagine that this would ever happen at Brennan’s of Houston.

Under the completely reasonable assumption that my Puma track suit jacket and crusty, sweat-stained Astros baseball cap weren’t appropriate attire for a reputable fine dining establishment (which they are not), we called Brennan’s ahead of our reservation to check on the dress code. You know, like civilized people.

Although the manager informed us that “business casual” was required, the joke was on us as the other diners would have been underdressed for a weekend trip to Walmart.

C’mon now, Brennan’s. When you’re running up a guest check the size of a car payment in celebration of a close friend’s ascension from the barren wilderness of bachelordom into the sobering permanence of Catholic matrimony, you don’t expect to be surrounded by loud, drunken tourists in hoodies and hooker boots.

You expect to feel special. We felt swindled.

What do expect? You were there on a Monday night. Pretty sure we didn’t get a “Monday night discount.”

But you’re in New Orleans. It’s a tourist trap. “Trap” doesn’t even begin to describe it.

So much for the inferior sequel paradigm. Thank God Brennan’s of Houston is more The Dark Knight than Jaws: The Revenge.

On deck: We arrive in Orlando and get our first look at the paper-champion Boston Red Sox . . .