I should say me without my camera. There was no straw either. Yet I not only managed, I triumphed. In fact, I made history. I know I lack illustrative proof. You'll just have to believe me. The fish really was that long.
A few days ago, I ate the po' boy of my life. This is saying something, since fried goodies wrapped in crusty, chewy French bread, dressed with lettuce, tomato, pickles and mayonnaise, sum up the best thing since horizontally sliced bread. A po' boy is my all-time go-to, the heat at the long end of my heat-seeking appetite. It's the meal I must have almost daily when I'm in New Orleans, and once I ate two in one day. (I should admit, one pass was a solo affair. If you compared this little confession to drinking alone, I wouldn't argue. And I can't say I wouldn't do it again.)
Po' boys linger at every corner in and around New Orleans. Stories abound about its Depression-era origins: a streetcar conductor/restaurant owner gave them away to fellow workers during a strike; a bar owner gave them to new customers as a generous initiation; thankful customers gave the snack as a tip for poor delivery boys. Here's my favorite: the sandwich is a most legitimate offspring of "the peacemaker," a loaf of bread split, covered with butter, filled with fried oysters, and presented to a finger-strumming wife by a stumbling husband after a late-night spree of no good.
The origin debate pales in comparison to picking a favorite: fried oyster, fried shrimp, fried catfish, roast beef, fried crawfish, meatball, Italian, sausage. If you thought the Democratic primary was a lost cause, try convincing a roast beef lover that fried shrimp is the way to go. My candidate, my whole life, has been fried oyster. This devotion and stubbornness has made for many a poor meal. In a place known for its fried catfish or andouille sausage, I stuck with oysters. I've eaten uncounted sandwiches with cold, tiny fried oysters on bread that couldn't hold its own. (Most recipes call for two dozen oysters per sandwich, so weak bread is a killer; perhaps one day it'll be known as a strong boy.)
Then I walked into Crabby Jack's, an outpost of Jacques-Imo's Cafe, on Jefferson Highway just outside of New Orleans' city limits. All the normal offerings were on the board, as was a special for the day: shrimp remoulade with fried green tomato. I thought, what the hell? Remoulade sauce mixes mayonnaise with tartar sauce with hot sauce and lemon juice and creole mustard. It usually dresses boiled shrimp, though it can be paired with crab, crawfish or just about anything in need of a juicy kick. Why not give it a po' boy try?
Luckily for you, people who are smarter than me have remembered their cameras when visiting Crabby Jack's. Luckily for me, I ate the best po' boy I've ever had. The remoulade had tang and bite and held together dozens of sweet shrimp. The tomatoes were fried perfectly, with that beer-batter-like crust that comes on really good onion rings. And the bread, the most important part, held its own despite its bulging, dripping weight. Even better, the verdict isn't limited to rash pick. My mother, also an oyster devotee, had fried oyster and issued the same decision. These sandwiches are, hands down, a new favorite.
Eating the thing took two hands, a fork and a willingness to chase down trickles of runaway sauce with fingers and tongue. A regular, the smallest size, really is almost a foot long. And I ate the whole thing. You'll really, really just have to believe me.
A few days ago, I ate the po' boy of my life. This is saying something, since fried goodies wrapped in crusty, chewy French bread, dressed with lettuce, tomato, pickles and mayonnaise, sum up the best thing since horizontally sliced bread. A po' boy is my all-time go-to, the heat at the long end of my heat-seeking appetite. It's the meal I must have almost daily when I'm in New Orleans, and once I ate two in one day. (I should admit, one pass was a solo affair. If you compared this little confession to drinking alone, I wouldn't argue. And I can't say I wouldn't do it again.)
Po' boys linger at every corner in and around New Orleans. Stories abound about its Depression-era origins: a streetcar conductor/restaurant owner gave them away to fellow workers during a strike; a bar owner gave them to new customers as a generous initiation; thankful customers gave the snack as a tip for poor delivery boys. Here's my favorite: the sandwich is a most legitimate offspring of "the peacemaker," a loaf of bread split, covered with butter, filled with fried oysters, and presented to a finger-strumming wife by a stumbling husband after a late-night spree of no good.
The origin debate pales in comparison to picking a favorite: fried oyster, fried shrimp, fried catfish, roast beef, fried crawfish, meatball, Italian, sausage. If you thought the Democratic primary was a lost cause, try convincing a roast beef lover that fried shrimp is the way to go. My candidate, my whole life, has been fried oyster. This devotion and stubbornness has made for many a poor meal. In a place known for its fried catfish or andouille sausage, I stuck with oysters. I've eaten uncounted sandwiches with cold, tiny fried oysters on bread that couldn't hold its own. (Most recipes call for two dozen oysters per sandwich, so weak bread is a killer; perhaps one day it'll be known as a strong boy.)
Then I walked into Crabby Jack's, an outpost of Jacques-Imo's Cafe, on Jefferson Highway just outside of New Orleans' city limits. All the normal offerings were on the board, as was a special for the day: shrimp remoulade with fried green tomato. I thought, what the hell? Remoulade sauce mixes mayonnaise with tartar sauce with hot sauce and lemon juice and creole mustard. It usually dresses boiled shrimp, though it can be paired with crab, crawfish or just about anything in need of a juicy kick. Why not give it a po' boy try?
Luckily for you, people who are smarter than me have remembered their cameras when visiting Crabby Jack's. Luckily for me, I ate the best po' boy I've ever had. The remoulade had tang and bite and held together dozens of sweet shrimp. The tomatoes were fried perfectly, with that beer-batter-like crust that comes on really good onion rings. And the bread, the most important part, held its own despite its bulging, dripping weight. Even better, the verdict isn't limited to rash pick. My mother, also an oyster devotee, had fried oyster and issued the same decision. These sandwiches are, hands down, a new favorite.
Eating the thing took two hands, a fork and a willingness to chase down trickles of runaway sauce with fingers and tongue. A regular, the smallest size, really is almost a foot long. And I ate the whole thing. You'll really, really just have to believe me.
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