Mexican Street Food

We have been in Mexico for two full days now. Yesterday we attended a "free" breakfast that turned out being a five hour sales pitch...there are no free breakfasts😫😩

We have been eating expensive, bland resort food and I have been questionIng whether I am really a foodie. Eating just seems boring here.

But tonight my foodieness was revived by delicious Mexican street food. 

The only good thing that came out of the sales pitch on Monday was the suggestion of a street in Playa del carmen that had good, local food. We found this little open air restaurant that had just sopes and quesadillas. Frankly, I'm not sure what the difference is. 

It was a simple set up with a griddle in the corner where several women were making tortillas by hand. There were plastic bins with different fillings. All the ingredients were written in Spanish, so John and I asked for a couple we knew like chorizo and poblano. But after we devoured those, we noticed another sign that had the ingredients in English also. Once we saw the choices we had to try the squash blossom and the braised pork cracklings. 

Usually I'm a meat lover, but the poblanos and squash blossoms were so good. They were bursting with flavor and perfectly spiced. The resort food was politically correct, but really dull and absent of ownership. 

The older woman making the sopes was clearly the owner. We were unlikely guests in this establishment. None of the employees spoke English, and communication was primarily made by references to the receipt. She would bring the receipt over and refer to it then point to the dish. She gave me this box of clotted cream and said, "crema" and gestured what I was supposed to do with it. The second time around she just put it on for me. We ate one round of sopes and, like good Americans, ate another round. John and I agreed that it was the best food we had since we arrived, and it cost us in total less than five bucks!

As we were leaving, I hugged the little Mayan woman (they're all little) and said " mucho, mucho, mucho gracias". In her best English she responded, "Good morning" and we walked off into the night.

Moist

My last few eating adventures have evolved around the Texas staple, barbecue. If you want to eat barbecue, just close your eyes and follow your nose. Everywhere there is a hunk of some kind of meat smoking its way to deliciousness.

I did a little research and found out that the mother ship of barbecue can be found in Lockhart. In fact, folks have a hard time exclusively recommending one of the three places in Lockhart that make barbecue. I made the final decision based on the detailed analysis involving the complex steps of-- pulling into Lockhart, looking up and following the giant arrows pointing to Black's 

My companions included Thom, my nephew;  Sally, my daughter; and John, my husband. We strolled in the front door and were quickly cued up in front of heating trays with all sorts of asides that included; potato salad, cole slaw, mashed potatoes, creamed corn, green beans and ...banana pudding. I passed on everything but the cole slaw. Sally opted for the green beans, which are her favorite vegetable.

The next decision was much more,difficult. There before us was a giant butcher block that looked like it was about 50 years old. On top of it was an assortment of meats. There were giant beef ribs, smaller pork baby back ribs, links of smoked sausage and there in all its splendor, the brisket that I had been hearing about and seeing on TV for the past six months. The man with the knife layed out a sheet of heavy brown paper and asked, "So, what would ya'll like?" What followed was a flurry of hesitations and blurted suggestions.

 Finally John said, "What do you suggest?" 

I quickly added, "We've come here all the way from Maine and we don't want to miss anything."

"Well welcome," said the friendly woman on the other side. "We're pretty famous for our brisket and sausage."

So we easily ordered both. The next decision was the simplest one to make.

"Would ya'll like your brisket lean or "moist"? 

This was nicest word for "fatty" that I'd ever heard. It's so much easier to say, "oh yes. I'll have the moist brisket than I'll have the fatty brisket." In fact, I think moist brisket tastes better than fatty brisket. It certainly sounds better. In fact, for the rest of the day...and still...I used the moist euphemism repeatedly. "Look at the moist cow out in that field", "That woman is rather moist", etc.

Now there was a minor disappointment at Black's...the string beans. Being in the company of an expert string bean eater, I quickly learned that the Black family barbecue establishment was not the Black family fresh vegetable farm. Sally made it clear that meat smoking and vegetable steaming did not fall into the same galaxy of food perfection. As I gazed across the table at Sally's disappointed eyes, I scanned the table before her and there sat the grayish green string beans, barely eaten. Her disappointment was the bittersweet reminder that even fresh green beans deserve a place in the meat dominated foodie universe.

But, speaking of meat, our server recognized the tell tale tourist qualities of our crowd, which included the oooohs and ahhhs and mmmmms and finger licking that the others seemed capable of foregoing. After I effusively thanked her and asked if I could take here picture next to the butcher block, she looked at me affectionately and asked, "Would y'all like a tour of the smoking ovens?" I was delighted and my guests politely came along for the ride.

We ended our day back in Austin at a food truck called Gourdough's that served yet another incredible  "doughnut". We shared the grilled banana doughnut and the strawberry shortcake doughnut. Both were topped with an amazing cream cheese frosting. The banana one had bananas grilled with brown sugar and the strawberry one had fresh sliced strawberries. But the doughnut on the bottom was delicious-- crispy on the outside and "moist" on the inside. We were all happy to share, but I was secretly willing to increase my own moisture a bit more if I had the opportunity.

 

Improvisation

Ever since we decided to go south for our travel adventure for this year, I have spent an inordinate amount of time watching foodie shows like Bizarre Foods and No Reservations and reading Travel Channel blogs and websites. In fact, I have become a bit of a devotee to these sources. As I mentioned in my previous blog, "From Away: Rants, Raves and Rhapsodies of a Fledgling Traveler", the guidebooks are not always right. Sometimes you have to just explore.

As one might presume, "foodie travel" can be expensive, so I have tried to choose my eating venues carefully. There are five thousand billion restaurants out there and I will not be able to go to them all unless I win a fifty thousand billion dollar lottery.  

But whenever you travel, the locals start to offer up all sorts of suggestions about where to go and, more imporantly, where to eat. I started to get nervous as the suggestions started flying. "Oh this barbecue is better than that barbecue" or "You've got to try this place". What about my carefully calculated plans? What about the less than fifty thousand billion dollar budget? 

Fortunately, this fledgling foodie stayed open to all the possibilities. So when my niece said her colleague suggested "Swift's Attic", I said "yes". 

And yes, what a great night! We all sat down to a creative and fun dinner. I started with a cocktail that was impossible to pronounce, but delicious. It had "silver something tequila", a muddled jalapeno and St. Germaine liquor. It was smooth, sweet, salty, hot...and perfectly balanced. Then came the dinner experience. I very intentionally say experience here because it was clearly that for everyone at the table. The food was served as "plates" which is family style...on steroids. It is family style where every single dish is amazingly fascinating and so complex each dinner partner is trying to define the experience. The table conversations sounded like a voice over dream sequence. "Is that cinnamon I taste?", "No, I think it's cardamom...or not", "Maybe anise?". "Oh my God...here try this!. 

I tried to control my controlling and solicited everyone's input, but I insisted on sweetbreads, which I have been wanting to try ever since I took a bite of John's twenty years ago at a restaurant in northern Maine called "13 Stanley Avenue. These were amazingly prepared with a miso glaze. The conversations were raised to a whole new level as each table mate added an adjective... creamy, sweet, delicate, smooth. 

The menu itself was so enticing...and it was frequently just a list of ingredients. But the combination of them were what was so intriguing. Who could resist trying..."Charred edamame. chili oil. pop rocks" or "Braised Windy Hill goat shoulder, ricotta gnocchi, smoked fig, tomato ragout"! The only trauma was that we were all too full to try the incredibly playful dessert "Popcorn and a Movie: Butter Popcorn Gelato, house made candy bar, caramel corn, root beer gel". 

 It is absolutely wonderful to enjoy this family dinner adventure with my niece and nephew in their new home town. After dinner we went downstairs to listen to a jazz jam that included Tommy's guitar improvisations. The whole night was filled with great improvisations.

He's the young guy on the left in the plaid shirt!

A Few Lessons in Timing and Articulation

Part of being a fledgling foodie is that the learning curve can be very frustrating. For instance, the Glenda's debacle was frustrating because we got there too late to get to try several of the dishes recommended by my sources. I woud not have had the okra if the smothered pork steak was still available. Realistically, I question whether any experienced foodie would choose okra...ever. I have eaten it the past and it has always had a slimy mouthfeel that is not compensated by it's taste in my opinion. Of course, this didn't stop me from devour two thirds of it.

But to return to my point...timing matters in this traveling food journey I'm taking. These places I'm eager to explore are not fast food franchises that can repeatedly create the exact same food again and again. These artists are using limited fresh local ingredients. They are only able to provide a finite amount of smothered pork steaks or braised pork cheeks as in the case of our visit to Dai Due butchers at the Farmer's Market in Austin.

I have been fascinated with those parts of the animal that most folks just throw away, but, (as I have learned from Andy Z), are frequently the most delicious morsels to consume. I have seen Andrew pop more than a few cheeks, eyeballs, tongues, ears and toes into his mouth and roll his head and rave about the wonderful textural and taste sensations these parts evoked. I have more to say about this, but to make my point about timing first. We arrived at the Dai Due kiosk at the farmer's market too late for the cheeks. In fact, as if in slow, dramatic motion, I watched the guy there put up the "sold out" sign for the cheeks. Add music and it's the climax of a foodie tragedy. I realized this was twice now that casual attention to timing has interfered with the carefully calculated food experience I was seeking out. And it's not like I can just go there the next day. Nope. This fledgling foodie better get on the ball with her priorities. Check the schedule. Check the menu. Decide what's really important... like spending time with the ones you love... or eating pork cheeks! 

I have also realized that I need to start focusing on the food a bit more. John said, you wrote about Glenda's, but you didn't write much about the food itself. My nephew Thom gave me the idea that I need to gather my thoughts about the actual eating experience closer to the moment of impact. One thing I've learned about food experiences is that shortly after the experience has ended the details dissipate. I've learned from energy work that vibration doesn't span memory. And with food, the vibration changes drastically after it enters the digestive tract and starts to turn into sluggish, nap inducing energy. Unfortunately, it seems to be true that with many of the foods that fascinate me, the energy they trigger AFTER the eating experience is not the bliss that they evoke BEFORE I eat them. This may be a deal breaker in the experienced kingdom of foodies, but eating lots of fat has a cost. OH MY GOD! This may be the beginning of the end of my foodie identity. Soooo, let us not venture further down that pathway.

Let's talk about parts. Yes, I mean animal parts, offal. I experienced the marriage of two new foodie practices at an imperfect time while out in Austin recently.  My niece, Jess took us to a spot called Lucy's. It got rave reviews from her local friends for it's fried chicken.  When we got there I was surprised to see calf fries or "mountain oysters" on the menu. Now, I knew that they were calf testicles, but Jess did not. I told her and her eyes got wide and I could see a frightened look on her face when I said we had to try them. The only expression that exceeded her's was John's, who looked personally threatened by the prospect of eating these particularly delicate parts. But, a true foodie cannot simply succumb to the weaknesses of her dinner mates. I may never have this opportunity again. No, I pressed on and the crunchy little morsels arrived at our table with a ranch style sauce accompanying them.

 

It was delightful to try them, but equally enjoyable to watch Jess and John wade into the dark pool of part eating. Also unfortunate was the timing of the recent conversations about being more articulate about analyzing the flavors and textures of the foods I ate. John, picking up on this detail about more articulation and, being ever so helpful, offered the articulate words, "creamy" and "kinda spermy" as his analysis of the experience. He did this just at the moment that Jess popped one into her mouth. Oh the suffering in her eyes as she politely tried to chew and swallow what had become a vivid ordeal in nearly absolute reality. Jess politely swallowed and opted not to try another, but rather bring the leftovers home to torture her little brother. John was also a little traumatized by the experience, which had obviously struck him on a more personal level. I was actually a little disappointed by the triumphant moment of eating balls for the first time. As is often the case, the anticipation of an eating experience can be more blissful than the eating itself. I will have to try them again when they are not deep fried and crunchy, since anything deep fried and crunchy is delicious and undistinguishable for anything else deep fried and crunchy. And as for articulation in food descriptions... timing is everything.

Glenda's or ...not?

We got up early on Friday and began our second leg of the southern trail. We were headed to Austin, Texas. But first we had an important mission. 

We had to drive to Breaux Bridge for a meal at Glenda's Creole Kitchen. It was featured in Anthony Bourdain's Cajun Country episode and it was such an authentic example of the real deal we knew we had to try it. It wasn't a simulation of or a spin off of country cooking, it was just that ...country cooking. And, of course, all of the enthusiastic exuberance was helpful. And, of course, pork chops smothered in gravy just needs to be eaten whenever possible. 

So we were confidently on the road. I had timed everything carefully and we would arrive at Glenda's around 2 or 2:30 for a sort of late lunch dinner combo. We stopped at the Nottoway Plantation and had a great tour. I'm really impressed with tour guides. They are so knowledgable and engaging. I might be one when I grow up.

I was navigating brilliantly thanks to Siri, my iPhone GPS queen. I was also surfing for reviews of Glenda's. One of the Yelp reviewers crackled us up. He said her cooking was like his mom's cooking when he was little...except his mom didn't cook that good! He also said the dining room closed at 1! Oh my God! I panicked. My brilliant navigation was all for naught. We would miss lunch! this could not happen. When would we ever be in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana again?!?  But there was a brief hope that we could get there before 2 which was when the drive thru window closed. Siri said our ETA was 1:41. I begged John to drive faster. We were lucky that the speed limit on Louisiana highways is 75. We drove in a frenzy and made it to Breaux Bridge in what we thought was the nick of time. But Siri (that bitch) told us to go right at Poches. We drove down the road and she kept saying "You have arrived, you have arrived." But we had not arrived. No Glenda anywhere. I saw a woman fetching her mail and I jumped out of the car and approached her.

 She must have sensed my anxiety because she said, "Now Honey, you just go back down this road and you'll come to a place called Poches. You just go past that place for about three miles and she's right there on your left. Just a little white building. You won't miss it." I imagined that she has had a few other panicked fledgling foodies desperately scrambling to retrieve their lost time at Glenda's. We turned around and raced down the road. There were few houses and lots of fields around us. There it was. A little bitty place with a hand painted sign and a tattered flag. We pulled in and I jumped out and tried the door! Locked! A woman was getting into her car. 

 "You can still get food at the drive thru around to the other side" she said. 

I walked around and John drove next to me. I think I scared Glenda cause I was not in the car but standing next to the window instead.

"All we have left is "shrimp and crab smothered okra" and "fried catfish". 

We said yes please and got our meals to go. 

We added two pralines for dessert and settled onto the picnic table for our lunch. Siri had not completely sabotaged our plan.

Muses and Music

My friend Win's voice had been drumming on my brain ever since I asked for his suggestions for our visit to New Orleans. "Well, of course you're going to listen to music" he said, with perfect clarity, like it is the main reason one would visit New Orleans.

 Never mind the beignets, or the gumbo, or the oysters, or the pork cheeks, or the boudin balls, or the bananas foster bread pudding, I had to listen to music and I had not listened to any music and it was the last night of our stay. John had a headache and was in bed. I was sitting on the couch inventing lies that I could use when folks said, "What music did you hear in New Orleans?"

John got up and said he was feeling a little better. I was so relieved cause I was really coming up empty with the lies. 

I regret that I've never been one to seek out music experiences. Sometimes I would get excited about someone I know playing music or some performer that I have always adored performing a concert, but overall I am not a big music fan. I didn't really understand what the big attraction was when I could just buy the CD  or "pandora" the artist.

But with Win's voice haunting me and John's generosity in rallying from his slumbers, we ventured out into the cold night on our music adventure. 

We decided we wanted to go to "The Three Muses" on Frenchmen Street in the French Quarter. We didn't recognize any of the artists playing, but it had food, which was something I understood well.

 We strolled down Bourbon Street, which is an experience the guidebooks dismissed, but one that I recommend. It was like a step back in time-- neon signs flashing all sorts of colorful slogans, colorful characters offering all sorts of promises and lots of colorful music. I told John it reminded me of Pottersvile in "It's a Wonderful Life" when Jimmy Stewart gets a glimpse of what his life would look like without him. We strolled past lots of alcohol in many shapes and sizes. In New Orleans, you can carry your drink out of the bar and down the street. We even had our picture taken with a giant sign that said  "Big Ass Beers" because John had some special friends he thought would get a kick out of seeing him carrying it.

We found Frenchmen Street and The Three Muses. Both were packed with people. We had to wait outside for about an hour before we could go inside. But in just a few minutes a big old brass band spontaneously formed on the corner and played this amazing music. I was so struck by their skill and their camaraderie and warmth. I was struck by the friendliness and fun that started to exude from all the listeners. I lost the eagerness to enter the bar and just took in the joyful music that was pretty much free to hear.

We did get to hear the music inside too and it was a great old country trio singing and playing piano, trumpet and a washboard. There was nothing staged or packaged about these performers. They were just good, wholesome musicians sharing their talents. I was starting to feel content. I felt that rare feeling of unity with strangers. I noticed my foot was tapping and I had little interest in food. Hmmm. I think it was the music.

You obviously must listen to music when you visit New Orleans!

Soul Food

Today was WARM! My shoulders have returned to their rightful place and I no longer feel like curling up in front of a fire and reading a book...even a guidebook to New Orleans. In my new mindset, I was reminded of an episode on Bizarre Foods where Andrew Zimmern went to a really cool place called Cafe Reconcile. I remembered it was a teaching restaurant that he visited and raved about the goodness of the food and the people there!

I did a little research and found it. It was just down the street from us. It is a restaurant that trains young people and provides knowledge and skills to help overcome poverty and prejudice and...it is delicious. 

We got there and the place was hopping, thriving. It was such a pleasure to see education working in such a smart and meaningful way. We had an authentic restaurant experience and got to try authentic southern dishes like a crawfish po'boy, collard greens with pork and the most AMAZING bananas foster bread pudding. It was topped with this amazing cross between ice cream and whipped cream that I could not figure out the culinary construction of. It also fed my soul which was starved!

I don't have a pic of my soul, but I think you might see its reflection in the bread pudding...and yes...I shared it with John.

Haunted in so many ways!

It's hard to be a hardcore foodie when you're used to three meals a day, and truthfully, two is more typical for me. I have come to understand that the true skill of the hardcore foodie lies in digestion.  Lots and lots of digestion. My stomach has been haunting me in recent days by asking strange ominous sounds...etc.

We have figured out some tricks to try more dishes by sharing and ordering several small plates. Hallelujah for the small plate. Sharing is only an issue when it comes to dessert. This is why I have to eat beignets EVERYDAY that I'm in New Orleans. We share an order each time, soooo "technically" I'm only eating half an order of beignets! Right? Of course right. If I'm going to really understand the complexity of the beignet, I need to eat many of them.

On a wholly different note, we had a haunted New Orleans tour of the French Quarter. My neighbor, who is an authentic New Orleanian, said that they were surprisingly interesting, and she was right. John and I were the only tourists, so our tour guide was very generous in his storytelling-- throwing in a few extras. We strolled by a convent that was one of the oldest buildings in New Orleans, and filled with stories about virgins and "not-so-virgins". We saw the house of Delphine Lalaurie who secretly tortured her slaves in a creepy room in the house. We saw a bunch of other haunted sites and learned their history. The tour guide was excellent and his storytelling added a fascinating perspective of New Orleans. I also felt good about supporting this local college student.

This all took place in the record breaking cold spell during which we have been unfortunate enough to visit, so I must have really liked it. The evening was supposed to end with music, but instead we scrambled over to... Yep...you guessed it...Cafe Du Monde for warm, sweet, BEIGNETS!

Confessions at Cochon

I am a fledgling foodie. I proved it tonight while we were eating at the restaurant I've been dreaming of eating at ever since I knew we were going to New Orleans...Cochon. Yes. It means Pig in French, and "real" foodies can see the fun play on words and the cultural spin that these clever chefs have used in creating this amazing place. I'm still just embarassed that I'm so infatuated with a restaurant called pig in French.

After a rather long and challenging decision process that involved a bunch of questions like which is your favorite? Which do you prefer the blue crab or the oysters? I think it's hilarious how much I look for the approval of the wait person in my decision. But I figure that my waitperson is the closest source to the impossible "right" choices I need to make. All of the questions are based on the painful, first world problem that I can't have a little bit of EVERYTHING on the amazing menu. 

But at last John and I decide on a dinner order. We choose braised pork cheeks, blue crab, bacon and satsuma salad with a jonny cake, fried livers with pepper jelly and toast, Lima beans ( yes, and they were amazing) and creamy grits. Now that seems like so little when I remember all the choices on the menu. 

As we wait for our food to come I enjoy a cocktail made with the juice of satsuma. Again, John "the food reductionist" translates the juice of a satsuma to orange juice. First he calls beignets donuts and now he's calling satsumas oranges. I did save myself from eating crow again though. He made light of the fact that satsumas were just Japanese oranges and although I was appalled that he would reduce an exotic food like satsuma to a simple food like orange, I did some research and alas, satsuma is a "large domain on the southern Japanese island of Kyushu, dominated in the Edo period by the great samurai clan of Shimazu" but in my reality it is the idyllic fruit that Truman Capote shared with his best friend in "A Christmas Memory". I'm working on forgiving John for this transgression.

It became a lot easier to forgive him after he had the BRILLIANT idea of asking for more bread so that we could sop up all the deliciousness on the plates without me having to embarass myself and lick the plates, which I was truly on the verge of doing.

The final angst filled decision of the evening was dessert. John and I agreed (with some guilt laden discussion) to "share" it. We couldn't agree on the chocolate mousse cake, the Meyer lemon farmers cheese tart or the gingerbread pudding with rum raisin ice cream, so I sought out the advice of our waitperson again and I was shocked and delighted when her response was "I will surprise you!". So we waited on pins and needles until the Meyer lemon dessert appeared before us. She had made a very thoughtful decision...I hope:/

But, the reason I am just fledgling foodie is that this is the only photo I managed to salvage from our amazing dinner at Cochon.

Mmmm Crow!

I think I might be a food snob or something. I get defensive about folks calling delicious, perfect foods like beignets, donuts. It might have started when I learned that donuts (as in Dunkin' Donuts) was properly spelled doughnuts. 

Or maybe it was when I was in line for lokoumathes at the Greek Festival and I enthusiastically told the woman behind me that they were a delicious tradition in my Greek family that revolved around the New Year celebration. And an old Greek woman next to us said, "Ah, they're just Greek doughnuts". First, a delicious, sweet, crispy fried lokoumatha is not JUST anything. And something as pedestrian as a donut? I THINK NOT!

Remember the beignets? Remember my rant about how wrong John was by calling them doughnuts? Well, last night we escaped a rain storm in the Cafe Du Monde and much to my chagrin, the sign before us totally betrayed me. Even the waitress with the cute French accent couldn't rescue me from the painful truth that beignets were called, by their very own creators...French doughnuts.

I was forced to eat crow when I reluctantly showed John the sign. 

But, it was delicious regardless...

Second Breakfasts

  Yesterday afternoon we had a few fun snacks! First we went to "Charcoal". The sign outside said something like, "if you're not a carnivore, don't bother to come inside". I have to say that I am a carnivore. I have tremendous respect for vegetarians and I know that meat is pretty bad for me, but I really love it. So when I saw that this place had Elk and Buffalo and Kobe beef, I was intrigued. Of course, it wasn't even lunch time. So I went the Hobbit route and decided to have "second breakfast". We ordered two very intriguing appetizers. (Although, I did whisper to John that if I were to order an entree it would be the Kobe Burger which is served on a Hawaiian sweet bun, with Thomasville Tomme cheese, Abita root beer carmelized onions, praline bacon, and more.) 

Our appetizers were really delicious and I was starting to feel like I had some status in the ranks of the foodies of the world. We had boudin balls and hogs head cheese. Both are local and traditional New Orleans favorites and I sensed an approving gleam in the eye of the chef when he slid our appetizers across the counter. 

It was becoming a day of appetizers. John had discovered that The Blind Pelican served 25 cent oysters during Happy Hour. I hadn't been to a Happy Hour since college days when we would go and gorge ourselves on appetizers for a cheap dinner. The experience was a great success and I still can't decide whether I like the raw oysters or the char grilled oysters better. As the saying goes...I guess I like 'em both hot and cold.

Sweets from a Sweetie

As I mentioned in my last blog entry, the people here are really friendly and charming.  I didn't mention that the guidebooks and guides don't hesitate to tell me that New Orleans is rated the 2nd highest state for crime in America. They warn me to be attentive to my environment and cautious with my belongings. So I'm feeling a little bit cautious as John and I stroll through the streets of the Garden District looking at the architecture and, of course, for a sweet shop mentioned in the guidebooks, appropriately called "Sucre".

We did finally find Sucre and settled down for a delicious brownie and a cup of coffee. But the highlight of my search for sweets came from a spunky, older black woman who strolled up to John and I and offered us drugs. Immediately my tourist instincts kicked in and I wrestled in my mind on how to handle this potentially dangerous scenario. She strolled along with us and offered us drugs several times. She was holding out her clenched fist before us and I waited for her to open it and reveal a joint or a pill or (God forbid) a fistful of crack. Slowly she opened her hand and there in her palm was a red and white wrapped peppermint.  

Of course, now I'm wondering whether it was laced with drugs. But as she walked along with us, she chatted about the festive gents she saw on Bourbon St at Christmas whose dates had overindulged and how they picked the women up and carried them on their shoulders and held their legs so they wouldn't fall over. Then she talked about the benefits of dark chocolate and how her doctor had prescribed it for her and after that she loved to freeze dark chocolate kisses and carry them along with her so they wouldn't melt too quickly. We chatted about the cold weather in Maine and the warm weather in New Orleans. She was warm and friendly and full of grace. She wins the sweet vote from me this time around.

Unfortunately, I only took a picture of the colorful macaroons at Sucre and not the colorful character I met on the street today.

Beignets, Alligator Sausage and Muffaletta

When I asked my nephew Thom what we should try when we went to New Orleans, he told me without a second of hesitation that we had to go to Cafe Du Monde and have the beignets. He said they were little fried pastries covered in confectioners sugar and they were amazing. Now, if anyone shares an understanding of my affection for food, it is Thom. He loves to cook and he pays attention when he eats. 

But Thom is not the only one that insisted that we try beignets in New Orleans. The guidebooks insisted that we go to Cafe Du Monde and Dominic, our lovely personal guide, also advised us to go there. Dominic drives home the very accurate perception that New Orleanians are very friendly folk. We have been consistently confronted with kindness and friendliness... and there is nothing phony about it.  These folks slow down and listen. They are truly present when you talk to them. A real treat!

But I digress.

Back to the beignets.

So it was off to Cafe DuMonde this morning for a taste of something amazing. John seemed surprised that I knew what beignets were and where we would find them. Again I'm reminded that he and I live in very different worlds. I have been reading and thinking about beignets for about six months or ever since I learned what they were. Yet, he knew nothing about my secret fantasies. So, you can imagine how shocked I was when he said, "they sound like fried dough or doughnuts." 

They do not resemble ANYTHING like fried dough or doughnuts. A beignet is a doughnut if a doughnut died and went to heaven and sprouted wings and sprinkled the world with happy sparkles of joy.

We got our delicious pillows of crispy, delicate sweetness and rushed up to the esplanade overlooking the Mississippi River. We were warned that beignets are never improved by a "to go" bag. And as I saw the oily gold seeping through the bag of our beignets, I knew that they needed to be eaten immediately. 

We found a bench in the sunshine (the reason we ventured away from the shady Cafe) and settled down with our treat. By the end, I managed to cover myself in the white sweet powder from nose to knees. Anyone walking by must have assumed by the bliss in my eyes and the white powder on my face that I had just imbibed illicit drugs... and to some extent... I had.

After the beignet experience, we wandered downtown to the French Market. We are big market fans and seek them out wherever we travel. The public markets we love are the ones that are not frequented by folks like ourselves-- tourists. In Italy we found a market that was filled with interesting and real foods that locals love to eat. Foods like lampredotto (the third stomach of a cow) and vegetables you can't identify or figure out how to eat. Whenever I eat something that is mainstreamed, I am sadly aware of how it is designed to serve the general palate and as a result loses all of its original charm.

The French Market was a little disappointing. Many kiosks of mass produced tee shirts, jewelry and processed foods, but of course there were a few original, home made products too. Products like "alligator sausages on a stick". 

Now this is when I explain the reason I am a "fledgling" foodie. John and I have spent many (probably too many) evenings watching Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern. We have been fascinated by intestines, maggoty cheese, blood pudding and a multitude of bug dishes. We frequently make remarks like, "I could eat that" or "Oh, I don't thnk so..." or just "Ew, nasty!". So, I feel that I am really just dipping my big toe into the vast ocean of eating possibilities.

So alligator sausage presented a decent challenge to my full flight attempts at being a real "foodie". There was a funny guy who had just bought an "alligator sausage on a stick" and was munching away as I was trying to make my own decision about trying it. I asked him if he liked it and his eyes lit up and he said "It's awesome, man. It tastes great!" With his endorsement and John's willingness to split one with me, I took the dive. It was awesome...like all sausages are awesome...juicy...fatty...spicy. Yep, it was awesome.

We strolled along, sharing brave bites with occasional dips in spicy mustard. My friend came by and told me I should check out the spicy relish there too. I knew he was a foody friend for life when we had a third conversation about the 12 raw oysters he had just finished. I knew he was braver than me when he said " I love to eat all kinds of shit." I quickly told him about the Insectarium I found in the guidebook where fried crickets are available for snacking.

But alas, the gator sausage was starting to sit heavily and greasily in my stomach (another reason I feel that I am fledgling). I knew I needed to counter that greasiness with something bright and citrus. And then I remembered the satsumas we had passed. 

The first time I learned about satsumas was when I read Truman Capote's, "A Christmas Memory", one of my favorite stories. In the story, a young Capote and his childhood companion, an old woman, head out to fly their kites after Christmas and sit in a field peeling satsumas and watching their kites fly. So often my memories are accompanied by specific foods that help to flesh them out and define them...but that's another blog entry.

So we bought a few satsumas and their bright, sweet, tart flavor countered the sausage and put my belly at ease.

Our final event of the day was another must on my New Orleans list, the Muffaletta. Basically it is a sandwich filled with salami, provolone and (I think) sopressata. The best place (according to the guidebooks) to get Muffaletta is where it was born, at the Central  Grocery. So we got in line (which was all through the store and outside along the street) for our very own Muffaletta. We had the great luck to have an ex-native behind us in line who knew all about the Muffaletta. She shared the history with us and even suggested a few other products that might be fun to buy. We decided to take our Muffaletta home with us and have a late picnic lunch in our room. On the trolley I sat next to a woman that I was inspired by. There were a couple men fixin' to fight behind us in the trolley and she spoke right up. She said, "Now stop all that foolishness. Don't y'all know we have places to be. Don't y'all know we got things to do. We don't need you two fools slowin us down." I wanted desperately to tell her how incredibly cool she was. I wanted desperately to hug her. I wanted desperately to give her my Muffaletta. But I just sat there next to her until she got off the trolley a few stops down the line. 

Not my most shining moment.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow we begin our adventure to the south. It's snowing and 7 degrees here in Maine, so the 40 degree highs in New Orleans are looking pretty luxurious right now.

 While playing rummy with John and Jake, I told Jake about "our" plans to eat at Cauchon, a restaurant called, "Pig"; visit a plantation nearby and tour the wreckage of Katrina. John looked at me an asked, with his wide innocent eyes, "We are?"  So this tells me that we might need to start planning together a bit more. I hadn't realized that I was already envisioning my adventure with him and he was just a passenger and not a partner. Of course, I can't imagine how anyone would turn down an opportunity to eat at a restaurant called "Pig"...in French.