It’s true for many of the world’s great wonders: love, compassion, art, music, color… and po-boys. This afternoon, I was discussing them with a future classmate with whom I’ve been in touch via Facebook (thank you, 21st-century social networking sites! I’m now acquainted with pretty much every single person I know and ever will know). He lives in New Jersey and has not an idea of this beautifully simple but indescribable phenomenon. I tried my best to explain New Orleans’ po-boy culture: how there are some places, like Zara’s or any other neighborhood grocery, that sells po-boys in the side. Then, there are po-boy shops that specialize exclusively in this sumptuous sandwich. I then had to try my best to explain the bread, the shrimp, the hot roast beef, the gravy, the satisfaction of a crunchy pickle, the bliss that is Crystal hot sauce mingled with mayonnaise…
I looked for a picture in one of my past blog entries and realized I’ve not once posted a photo of my lovely po-boys! This is sad, yes, but it’s incentive for me to have a po-boy-filled future (is that even a good thing?). I’ll be honest: today was NOT a day when I would have been willing to sit down with a camera and a healthy dose of restraint before eating. Context: today was my first day at Trumpet Group, which is based in Mid-City… in other words, SINFULLY close to Parkway Bakery and Tavern, which (do you believe it?) I had never visited (it’s just too far away, and since I’ve never experienced it, there was little calling me to it.
But, well, I was typical spacy me and forgot to pack a lunch, so I ate nothing all day. By the time I left at 5, I could have slaughtered and filleted a squirrel (thank God I didn’t resort to that). It just made sense to stop by Parkway for a fried shrimp po-boy, both so I could experience their offerings and so I could fill my tummy. I knew Su-Jit was a devotée of this particular sandwich and was curious to see for myself what made this shrimp sandwich so much better than any other. One thing I can say is that all the hype is wholly earned and deserved.
First: the bread. It’s chewy and easily torn, though it’s surrounded by a halo of flaky gold, an aura that shatters after first chomp. Combined with the pressure of both hands (which are required to hold together the pieces of the overflowing sandwich), this exterior breaks into a pleasing grid system of sorts, line after intersecting line like a windowpane letting you see the chewier white inside the bread has to offer.
Then: the shrimp. I have had a lot of friedshrimp in my life, but nary a few fried shrimp (or should I say Fried Shrimp?). Let me explain. Friedshrimp are universally recognized, a crowd pleaser. Big, small, salty, bland, dipped in ketchup or eaten like popcorn: they’re all the same. They’re friedshrimp. Only rarely are we lucky enough to encounter Fried Shrimp, which are fried with the dignity or precision that are typically heeded to, say, calamari. These shrimp were midsized and juicy but not soggy on the inside of their well-seasoned, crispy, greasy fried shell, which coated them completely in a tastefully thin layer. Intermingling with the stringly lettuce and that makeshift Crystal aioli, it was impossible to fathom for such a hungry tummy like mine.
All I know? This stuff’s good. Pictures to come in the next two weeks, depending on when I get out to Parkway again.
