Third Coast Cuisine

For over half a century the people of Bayou La Batre, Alabama have gathered for a ceremony that is both a celebration and a memorial.  They pray for a safe and bountiful fishing season and remember those who have lost their lives in seasons past.  This small fishing village does not have the sugar white beaches and sparkling high-rise condominiums so often associated with the Third Coast.  For every Destin there are a dozen Bayou La Batre's.

The people who live here work hard just to scrape by in a profession that is equal parts heritage and obsession.  Ask anyone who has ever made a living on a boat and they will tell you once the sea gets in your blood there is no getting it out.  Things have been particularly rough in Bayou La Batre after equal devastation from both Ivan and Katrina and now the looming oil spill.

My reason for venturing to the Bayou was to be a judge in the annual Gumbo Cook-off.  But as the event neared it was obvious that I would be experiencing something much more than a gaggle of gumbo.  Any thoughts I had of a blog post filled with flowery descriptions of spices and the richness of broth were now metaphorically obscured by crude oil.   In this town full of rugged people I saw despair etched on the faces of everyone.  As one festival organizer told me, the oil slick has, "certainly been the topic of conversation."

Folks here have little trust in the government.  For years they have endured stringent federal regulations supposedly designed to preserve the environment and protect American consumers.  Meanwhile that same government has turned a blind eye to an avalanche of imported seafood teeming with toxic chemicals. The post-Katrina response from FEMA that had many in New Orleans crying foul would have seemed like a Godsend here.  And now the same government which abandoned them five years ago has again drug its feet leaving the town in peril.  The Obama administration told them the leak was a mere 1000 barrels a day when in reality it was 200,000.  To them there is little difference between the current regime and its predecessor.

My fellow judges, locals both, regaled me with stories of the Blessing during the Reagen years.  The whole town would pack the church yard standing shoulder to shoulder, a sea of people joined in jubilation and thanksgiving.  Those days are gone now.  Five years have passed since Katrina and the town is just now starting to look like it did prior to her arrival.  Now this.

Of course the D.C. elitists have been on every talk show they could find saying that you cannot compare Deepwater Horizon to Katrina.  I dare you to stand on the Bayou and say that without the luxury of a team of Secret Service agents.  The great irony of the day was the uncharacteristic wind blowing directly off the Gulf.  People around here recognize that strong and hot breeze; it is just like the one that hits as a hurricane is barring down on you.  But this is a storm of a different complexion and its effects will not be measured in years but decades.

Amid all of the doom and gloom there was still a festive spirit among the crowd.  They lined up to try the foods from their new neighbors from Central America and Southeast Asia.  Blues musicians took the bandstand while people funneled into the church to sample the seafood that built the town.  Artisans had erected a tent city to hock their wares as families ventured to the wharf to look at the shrimp boats decorated like Mardi Gras floats.  Everywhere children laughed in played.

Virtually every resident in Bayou La Batre either works on a boat or at a business that's sole purpose is to support the fishing industry.  Fishing is the only game in town.  Those of us who are a little long in the tooth realize we were saying goodbye to something.  Before leaving, I spoke with Mark Kent a writer for the Mobile Press Register assigned to cover the event and he expressed his concerns saying that more than the economic and ecological devastation he was worried about the spirit of the people.

Amen.

A great article by Michael Bauer of the San Francisco Gate about the beautiful Leah Chase of Dooky Chase in New Orleans and her struggle to rebuild after Katrina.

Leah Chase: The embodiment of New Orleans determination

Many stories have been told about the devastation wrought by Katrina, and Leah Chase, who is 86, probably embodies the struggles of rebuilding as much as any other person.

It took two years, and help from friends and customers, before she could open a take-out window. And even today, her restaurant Dooky Chase is only open for lunch three days a week.

Last week, she was on a panel at the Association of Food Journalists meeting where she talked about Creole cooking. She was responding to an article written by Alan Richman in GQ magazine about how he had never met a Creole and basically called it a myth.

She talked extensively about the food and how to preserve it; she was both eloquent and elegant: "It's important to take what you know and pass it on," she said. "People will mix it up, but that's OK."

Later than night I talked to her at the Taste of New Orleans, where eight restaurants prepared signature appetizers for the 60 editors and writers.

"So you're open only three days a week," I asked as we made our way into the Southern Food and Beverage Museum, which happens to have a wing named after the pioneering African-American cook.

"Yes, and it's killing me," she said. I though her age was catching up with her, but then she completed her thoughts: "I've got to get open for dinner. I just have to cook." She hopes she has 10 years left in her so she can rebuild the business and leave it to her grandchildren, who are already working in the dining room and kitchen.

I knew I had to visit the restaurant, so the next day I skipped one of our sessions and headed out with some colleagues to Dooky Chase. It was both a reunion and a chance to pay homage; the last time I dined there was 27 years ago and I don't need a photograph to remember the elegance of the woman, dressed in a starched white chef's jacket, as she moved from table to table to greet both black and white customers.

The room looked as fresh as it did more than a quarter century ago. It contained the same beautiful stained glass, the gracious southern furnishings and one of the best collections of African art I've seen. It was as if nothing had happened, and she was moving forward with purpose.

The fried chicken was better than I remember, perhaps the best I've had. Golden and crunchy, it needed nothing more than salt, pepper and Cayenne to complement the moist flesh.

Over the door of the entrance to the large red dining room was a picture of President Obama in her dining room, tucking a white napkin into his shirt collar in anticipation of red beans and rice. Another picture in the foyer showed him hugging the owner, who has added green and pink jackets to her wardrobe.

In another photo, President George W. Bush was seated at a table with other dignitaries, and he was grasping her hand as she posed behind him.

At the end of the meal I asked about Obama and her eyes took on a joyous sheen as she practically sang his praises in her deep, rich voice.

I couldn't resist: "So you seem to be an equal opportunity cook," I said, as I drew attention to the other President. Her twinkle shifted a bit.

"He's a lovely man," she said. "He's invited me to the White House twice and he's such a gentleman." After a short pause she said: "However some men just find themselves in the wrong job."

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