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Night 18: Louisiana Express
The sultry weather breaks the next day. This is spring.
Birds are back, bugs too. The cicadas are probably emerging
from their 17-year dreams. I am relaxed and happy. But
here's where this assignment gets hard. I just don't
feel like getting dressed up and eating in a restaurant
tonight. It is, of course, a plum assignment to eat
a month of wonderful meals. But who really wants to
go out every single night? It's wearing on me, and the
only place left on my list that won't require me to
dress up offers one of the few kinds of cuisine I don't
really like, food from N'awlins.
I am the only person I know who hates New Orleans,
an opinion that makes me feel as if I have one big eye
in the middle of my forehead. It may have been the circumstances
under which I have visited the city. The first time
I was 15, on a sullen cross-country jaunt with my family
in August 1963. The summer was scalding with racial
unrest, and we Pennsylvanians were depressed at the
sight of segregated facilities. Plus, New Orleans in
August is rank. We stayed in a tourist cabin motor court
where a guy came in and sprayed every corner with DDT
before we brought in our bags. Even so, mosquitoes were
everywhere, and outdoors they stuck to us like torn
toilet paper on shaving cuts. I hated it. The second
time there, I'd fled to a friend's after the fatal stake
was driven through the heart of my marriage. It was
Halloween weekend and the streets were stuffed with
urinating tourists. Even in my happiest, most contented
moments, my idea of a good old time is not drinking
until I puke on my shoes.
And the food! I usually eat a healthy diet, and that
town seemed to be a nightmare of fried food. I hated
the beignets, and that burnt-up fish! All I remember
beside the heartache was the crying need for fiber,
the one request that is not readily fulfilled in our
southern Gomorrah.
So. When I saw that Louisiana Express was on my list,
I honestly did not want to go. I was just not up for
popcorn shrimp, slimy okra and sugared fried bread.
In fact, I put off my visit so late in the night I was
the last customer there. And I wasn't even hungry. But
what a surprise! Set in a little strip of miscellaneous
businesses in Bethesda, Louisiana Express is a charming
place — cheerful but not manic, casual but not funky.
As soon as I ordered the catfish special, my mood began
to expand. Since I was the only person there, and it
was getting late, there was the risk that I'd get a
recycled geriatric dinner. Boy, was I wrong. The catfish
was fresh, its cornmeal jacket crunchy, freshly fried
and, miraculously, dry after frying. The spiced shoestring
potatoes were nice, which made me suspect they were
seasoned by hand on the premises, not on a conveyor
belt at a factory. The slaw was the best, a chopped
salad really, with cabbage and carrots, peppers, celery
and an acerbic tingle all its own.
I signaled José, the chef, to commend him on
his talent and find out his story. A shy man who warned
me he spoke little English, José was able to
yak on with me for about 10 minutes with no trouble
at all. He is from El Salvador. He has never been to
New Orleans. He learned to cook from the owner. Is the
owner perhaps a Mr. Dupris, a Mme. St. Onge or a M.
Leboeuf? No, he is Mr. Finkhaus, and he is from Germany.
I'm getting the message that the real melting pots
these days are in restaurant kitchens, where some kind
of international alchemy is providing us with hearty
cross-cultural blessings.
I was too full to try one of the splendid-sounding
desserts (bourbon bread pudding, pecan pie), or to stop
by the cooler by the door. There you can buy a Popsicle
on your way out, a perfect way to extinguish the spice.
It's a nice touch. Back to restaurant list
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