I used to call New Orleans home. A smelly, disgusting, putrid, crime-riddled home. Friends would occasionally come to visit. Their sole aspiration was to get drunk in the French Quarter. Couldn’t blame them; didn’t take long for myself to be fixture at certain watering holes (the best being The Shim-Sham Club, since closed). For anyone who came to stay, I had a standard lecture about visiting such a seedy area: avoid The Stream - a murky brown-hued current that somehow manage to avoid any drainage system, flowing away from the herd of tourists, most drunker than a boiled owl, some flashing less-than-photogenic mammillae, ending up, I’m guessing, in the Mississippi River. The Stream.
This foul stew of rain water, mop bucket waste, spilled hooch, vomit, and piss, once stepped in, could not be purified from clothing nor footgear. God forbid you’re a savage wearing Tevas. My lecture concluded with the unbreakable stance that if you were to unfortunately step in this rivulet that not only would your shoes never be allowed inside my home again, but you yourself would be spending the night on the porch with them. No exceptions. This is the sorta travel advice this blog offers. Some writers steer you one way, I steer you another.
OK, let’s lighten up a bit and talk Po’ Boys. The Po’ Boy sandwich is synonymous with the culinary of New Orleans. Just as much so as jambalaya or red beans and rice. That’s because it all started right here. No sandwich has a more important backstory than this distinctive sammie outside of The Monte Cristo (fun aside, I worked at a second-run movie house around the time Kevin Reynolds’s excellent and underrated adaptation came out, which all the bumpkins called The Monte Crisco. Embarrassing). Unless some sub shop comes around with a Great Gatsby hoagy. What would that even be? Spiedies with pesto, I guess?
The story of the Po’ Boy begins with a workers strike. Back when your grandfather was snapping grannie’s bra, the main means of transporting business and non-business people alike in New Orleans was the streetcar line. Fed up with long hours for low pay, the conductors went on strike. Scabious attempts were made to fill those vacant positions. Those attempts with met with mostly peaceful protests. Just kidding. They torched those motherfucking streetcars. Burnt to a crisp. In solidarity with the movement, a few bakeries around town started providing free sandwiches to feed the city’s poor boys. You fill in the rest. Although, I gotta say, if you’re getting free po’ boys everyday, I would come up with a laundry list of unattainable demands. But that’s just me. Selfish and insatiable. I’m the Orson Welles of people bringing a horse mask everywhere he goes.
Every Nawlins local has their Po’ Boy spot. Many are worth visiting. Adams Street Grocery in the Uptown neighborhood is legit. Not ones to skimp on the shrimp, Adams Street’s po’ boys are sure to satisfy and often come in under ten bucks. Over on Dauphine Street you’ll find Killer PoBoys, the new guy in town leaving their mark on an old tradition. And wildly succeeding. Try the chicken confit with coffee barbecue sauce. It’s fucking fantastic. They’re also known for their frozen Irish coffees. Since I don’t drink, I’ll have to take the word of some poor stumblebum that wouldn’t shut-up about them. Made a compelling pitch, but I had to let him know I swore that sorta stuff off. Not sure that he understood a little thing like sobriety. Oh well. I’m sure they’re good, though. If I ever plan to jump off the wagon, I won’t start there. But I’d have it eventually.
Parkway Bakery & Tavern is my spot. This mid-city institution, near Easton Park, has been serving up quality po’ boys for over one hundred years. Manager Justin Kennedy was nice enough to host our small production team, making my must-have menu item: the Surf & Turf. A tour de force between French loaves, piled high with slow-braised roast beef and deep-friend authentic Gulf Shrimp. Make sure you get it dressed with a smear of mayo, lettuce, pickles, and tomatoes. And can’t forget that gravy, baby. I like a small dish of extra gravy. You know, for dippin’. Did you ever watch my movie Gravy? You’d like it.
So, belly up to the bar, order a Purple Haze by Abita, and enjoy this land meets sea delight. Tell ‘em the Horse sent ya.
WATCH THE HORSE’S MOUTH: NEW ORLEANS