Red Drums
On a Foraging Trip to New Orleans
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“Who got the frozen pizzas?” I asked my friends as we unloaded the push cart at the grocery checkout. We were on the outskirts of New Orleans, my hometown and a place known for fantastic food. Like a Louisiana Salmon, I’d been hankering to get back and reacquaint with the culinary offerings. Which did not include frozen pizza.
The silence was profound as no one fessed up.
Here’s an interesting fact of life very few of us know about. It’s not on Wikipedia or in the US Labor Dept statistics. For those who are in the business of caring for others during times of death, illness, sudden changes in life, and who do so without asking anything in return, the demand for their services can be ceaseless and even, at times, overwhelming. People everywhere are hurting and they outnumber those who genuinely care and make a difference.
The four of us were on a “foraging” trip to New Orleans, but it was really to recharge the batteries for one of us. To keep him from being overwhelmed. It was to unplug, relax and even unintentionally act out what was to be the joke of the trip, “Who got the frozen pizzas?”
We’d already stopped for beignets on the way in, but they were mere appetizers. The pizzas in all their cardboard renderings slipped back into the frozen food section and we went out that night for an iconic New Orleans dinner of red beans and rice and sausage in a dive with a huge bar and a tiny kitchen.
New Orleans is a beautiful mix of eclectic people, where no matter their economic circumstances, everybody likes to have fun. Even grocery stores sell hard liquor.
While the trope is go on a big drunk in the Big Easy, those who do miss quite a bit of the city and its environs.
The next morning we drove out along a road that dead-ended because miles and miles of saltwater marsh stopped any further progress. Swarmed by desperately thirsty mosquitoes that bothered even the locals, we boarded a boat and cruised out into the marshes as the sun was rising. In Louisiana, fishing guides are referred to as Captains. No formalities of “Captain this” though, as everyone speaks on a first name basis.
We went fishing twice, and the second Captain was young, with a fiancée and a new baby. He said his fellow Captains called him Paw Paw, a Cajun term for grandfather, because he cruised his boat a few miles slower that theirs to save money on gas. Cruising in the saltwater marsh outside New Orleans can cover dozens of miles as the guides look for the proper salinity to find red drum (more tolerant of fresh water) and speckled trout (less so). Between the Mississippi running high and forcing vast quantities of fresh water out into the marshes and the tide pushing saltwater in, the hunt for decent fish-holding water is ceaseless.
We cast close to the grass, hoping to catch a red drum, a fighter that inhales live shrimp under a popping cork and tastes delicious. Louisiana is feeling the pressures of fishing and, much to the consternation of the guides, is cutting back on the limits anglers can keep, from five reds a day to only three. In a rare feat, we managed to take our limits by mid-morning, before the sun broke from the clouds and made the marshes sauna hot.
The second day, we fished as a thunderstorm built off in the distance. The sky darkened with heavy rain, lightning flashes illuminating the clouds. We were speckish compared to nature’s display. And vulnerable to the purple clouds coming our way. We finished fishing and made our way back, witnessing a waterspout birth miles away and reach adulthood. By the time the rain dumped, we were at the covered dock, watching gar snatch the filleted fish carcasses tossed into the water.
Our morning successes gave us time to forage elsewhere in New Orleans. We watched floats move to a new warehouse for next year’s Mardi Gras.
We ate Rocky and Carlo’s, where the side dishes were so huge, they could make meals unto themselves. The lady who took my order suggested the cabbage, said she’d eat it if I didn’t like it, which sounded like a personal guarantee. She pegged the rec and I devoured all I could, along with shrimp and oysters. Their plastic cups contained a curious slogan, “Ladies Invited.” Curious because families, moms, wives, aunts, grandmothers all dined. Not as fat as we felt walking out. We were stuffed.
We only met the staff at R&C’s. In the other places we ate, we spoke with those who sat nearby. We met natives who stayed, natives like me who left and were visiting, people from the north, which in these parts means above Alexandria. We met many who were from elsewhere, but irresistibly pulled to live in New Orleans.
In this one place on Magazine, the bartender was dissatisfied with his first attempt at making my drink, so he tried again before passing it over. Not all New Orleans bars exercise such quality control, but this one did, and I was grateful.
We barely noticed a piano song playing in the background. Two patrons stood, the same ones I’d had to reach through and across the bar to retrieve my well-made drink. In the narrow space between our table and their stools, they danced. We paid attention; live is much better than anything recorded. The song, with its uplifting notes, its lyrics of dreams, of hope, brought smiles not just to their faces, but ours as well. They moved gracefully closer, then apart, hands, arms touching, spinning, singing the lyrics we hadn’t heard but moved us in a way we hadn’t been moved in a while. They grinned, they broke out laughing, they covered their mouths, not from being embarrassed by dancing in front of us—they were largely oblivious—but to each other. Their friend sat on her stool, smiling. The song seemed to stop, and we clapped, wishing there was more, lucky to be caught in the moment of live joy. They knew it was a brief interlude and danced to the finale.
Answering our question, they said it was White Houses by Vanessa Carlton.
Batteries recharged, we recrossed marshes and left New Orleans. Bag of one last purchase, Hubig’s hand pies, lay on the seat. They swimmin’ in suga’.
On the trip home, it rained a solid two hours from a massive storm system. Hands on the wheel, White Houses continued to play in my head. I didn’t feel annoyed by the rain. I was still home.
All the Best,
Geoff
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Sounds fun. I'd like to go someday.
Very nice write up. I'm tempted to post pages, but... Time to make a batch of red beans. Laree also makes a great shrimp etouffee that we prefer eating on toasted French bread medallions. It's nice to see the abundance of great food. I hope we make it there soon to see old friends and sample some good eats. Thanks for the inspiration!