‘A Taste of Orleans’
by C Reid
Sometimes one can revisit an establishment purely because the food was simply irrepressible—meaning the senses were penetrated under waves of spices and aromas that only arise from intervals of basting. Well, one mercurial gem nestled in the heart of Jefferson Park…conjure Ricky and Doughboy’s intemperate enclave off of Crenshaw. The hidden South clinging on the edge of South Central. Best believe some treks are truly worth it before night break.
Does anyone truly care for the propped-up edifice that is exposition pertaining to locale/setting? I venture to say a defiant No to that lone audience of hyper-critical foodies, still hanging with me and my omnipresent muse. We will follow the pantheon of Raymond Carver and adhere to the cliched adage: ‘Less is more.’ Moving east towards a corridor of leathered-laden booths, the hostess seated me and my insatiate compatriots with an impressive bevy of menus,poised, artfully in the center.
The Food
Upon scanning a litany of delicacies with the algid scrutiny reminiscent of Ness, my eyes fixated on three words: Large Filet Gumbo. I am a connoisseur of Gumbo and all its demure components that manifest to a scintillating respite of heaven. Boudin sausage, diced onions, shrimp, shredded chicken, sage, paprika, black pepper, bouillon…the other spices fold in and one remembers the importance of monikers later upon reflection.
Traversing forward, the delicate, gold-kissed tendrils of mac n’ cheese dangled on my fork, changing hues with every stab of my instrument. The taste hearkens back to the earthiness of my mother’s cooking, perfectly seasoned and enticing the tongue ever more.
The aromatic lull of a platter of charbroiled oysters stings ardently through the other dishes, splayed across the table. One bite pulled you in the undertow, scouring for more fare in the currents tugging below. The crisp skin of the oysters, intermingled with the Old Bay seasoning, overtook all trite conversations, sending the palate to a netherworld of gastronomical delicacies.
They were miles beyond good: benevolent morsels. What one envisions manna would taste when paired with ambrosia…
There is a reason besides speeding towards USC to barrel down Jefferson Avenue—going east. Gaze towards the right and you just might glimpse a neon sign, pulsating the outlined surnames: Harold & Belles.
