Posts Tagged ‘New Orleans’
Posted by Lindsey Leake / Tuesday, January 10th, 2012
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Virginia’s ‘King’s Dominion law’ may be repealed
Prince William County’s Battlefield High marching band earns solo performance at BCS National Championship game in New Orleans
Distribution of Virginia primary absentee ballots temporarily suspended due to Perry lawsuit
Woman stabbed in parking lot of Sterling shopping center
Metro riders take part in annual ‘No Pants Metro Ride’
(Compiled by Lindsey Leake)
Posted by The Editorial Desk / Tuesday, November 22nd, 2011
Bayou Bakery in Arlington
Bayou Bakery in Virginia Celebrates its One-Year Anniversary
The Eatery Kicks into its Second Year this Tuesday by Celebrating with $2 Specials
Just one year ago, on November 22, chef David Guas, a native of Louisiana reared in New Orleans, began cooking and preaching the gospel of Louisiana cuisine. The tri-state area of Washington, DC was introduced to authentic New Orleans, Cajun and Creole dishes at Bayou Bakery, Coffee Bar & Eatery in Arlington, VA. Only those die-hard transplants and Louisiana enthusiasts had heard of Andouille, Boudin, Beignets, or Steen’s Cane Syrup, but that is no longer the case. This chef personality delighted our palates with Gumbo, Crawfish Etouffee, Muffuletta’s and much more!
Today, November 22, Bayou Bakery is Celebrating! Today it’s TWO for TUESDAY on the TWENTY- SECOND as Bayou Bakery moves into its second year!
11 am till Close:
$2 Drafts – Abita Beer
$2 Cup of Shrimp Monica
$2 Beignets (3 per plate)
Celebrate good times, people! Come on!
Bayou Bakery, Coffee Bar & Eatery, 1515 N Courthouse Road Arlington; (703)243.2410
– Jennie Whistler
Giving Up the Goods: DamGoodSweet
Posted by The Editorial Desk / Friday, November 13th, 2009
(Image: Taunton Press)
Introduce some Cajun to this year’s holiday table by preparing just about any of the Bayou-inspired confections N’awlins native turned local pastry chef David Guas shares in his new cookbook, DamGoodSweet.
The pseudo-autobiographical tome features 50 tantalizing recipes culled from Guas’ youth and professional experience, including: fried rice fritters, lemon doberge cake and banana pudding with crumbled vanilla wafers.
Need more proof?
Watch Guas test Al Roker’s commitment to gastric bypass by parading deep-fried apple pies, sweet potato tart tatin and red velvet cake in front of the one-time Today show weatherman:
(Video: Hulu)
Guas will also wax philosophic about all things honey and the plight of the bees on the “Disappearing Act” episode of Chefs A’Field (airing locally November 21 at 4 p.m. on WHUT).
To claim your copy of DamGoodSweet, just tell us about any local bakeries that regularly leave you swooning–be it from the homey smell of just baked breads, colorful arrays of gourmet cupcakes, rows and rows of old guard pastries or any other oven-fresh temptation–in the comments below.
We’ll select one winner at random from all the comments submitted before 5 p.m. on Thursday, Nov 19.
–Warren
Posted by The Editorial Desk / Thursday, March 19th, 2009
By Warren Rojas
“Cooking Up a Storm: Recipes Lost and Found from The Times-Picayune of New Orleans.” Edited by Marcelle Bienvenu and Judy Walker. Chronicle Books, 400 pgs., $24.95
Hurricane Katrina didn’t just upend buildings and flood streets across the Crescent City. It swept away generations of culinary tradition by permanently displacing scores of lifelong residents, shuttered historic restaurants (Commander’s Palace, Galatoire’s; both have since reopened) and destabilized the fragile economy by scaring tourists away for months after.
The food desk of The Times-Picayune reached out to evacuees who returned to their ravaged homeland, working to rebuild a society short on basic necessities and starved for a taste of normalcy.
“Cooking Up a Storm” was born of this shared frustration, chronicling a battered people’s attempt to fill in the gaps of their communal cooking memory one misplaced recipe at a time (“In New Orleans, food is culture. Food is family. Food is life”).
Rather than focus on any one style of cooking or specific ingredients, the commemorative cookbook tracks the dishes T-P readers hungrily sought out. Noteworthy contributions include: homemade cheddar and Creole mayonnaise spread, a pre-Civil War specialty known as calas (rice fritters), crawfish braid, Natchitoches meat pies, muffaletta pasta and, of course, all manner of gumbo creations.
View from the Bayou
Most Louisiana natives seem to cherish memories of meals past. We asked some now-locals to share a few of theirs.
David Guas
Pastry chef/N’awlins native
• What single dish most reminds you of home? Beignets.
• Do you still celebrate Mardi Gras? If so, what are some of the festive plates you can’t live without? King cake (of course), doberge cake (half chocolate, half lemon). The day before Mardi Gras, I always make red beans and rice with smoked sausage.
• What local restaurants do you visit to get your fill of Cajun and/or Creole cooking? If I had to go outside of my own kitchen, I would go to Acadiana (which I helped open in Sept. 2005) and order the gumbo, a po’boy, the duck, a muffaletta and a frosty frozen mug of Abita root beer!
Heather Kenney
A Louisiana transplant so enamored with the Big Easy, she named her daughter Nola
• What single dish most reminds you of home? A roast beef po’boy on good French bread with lots of gravy—which is next to impossible to find outside of the Pelican State.
• Do you still celebrate Mardi Gras? If so, what are some of the festive plates you can’t live without? Cream cheese-filled king cake and Abita beer.
• What local restaurants do you visit to get your fill of Cajun and/or Creole cooking? RT’s in Del Ray is my favorite and most like my mom’s home cooking. I’d rather go there or to Popeye’s than go to Acadiana in D.C.
(March 2009)
Posted by The Editorial Desk / Tuesday, August 1st, 2006
By Catherine Sumner
Sunset over bay after Hurricane Katrina
I am a white 27-year-old woman. I live, or at least once lived, on St. Charles Ave in New Orleans. My family and I are considered by most to lead a comfortable life. I didn’t lose property. No one in my family died (immediately) from Katrina, yet I will forever be affected by a hurricane I watched poolside at my cousin’s house in Houston.
“What are you still doing at home!?” “Go pick up your mama and get your ass on I-10!”
That was how I was awakened at 4:30 a.m. Sunday morning, August 28, 2005. My cousin Charlie (and his very gracious and patient wife Lynn) in Houston had called a “family conference” via three-way calling the previous night. My mother and I were having dinner at Clancy’s and weren’t home to answer the numerous attempts at reaching us. When my mother and I got back to my condo late Saturday night, we said our goodbyes and my mother drove to her house in Houma. I had just moved back to New Orleans. I was so happy to hear the streetcars pass by, smell the gardenias blossoming, and have my morning coffee on the deck at PJ’s on Prytania. I was hardly even unpacked. Although I had a TV, I didn’t have cable, and frankly, I’m not much of a TV-watcher anyway. I’d spoken to my aunt on Friday about what Bob Breck was saying on the news. Bob said this would be the “big one,” but they say that every year—bunch of alarmists. Sheriff Lee had just spent a few weeks scaring the hell out of all the old people in Jefferson Parish, telling them if they didn’t evacuate, to scribble their social security numbers on their arms with markers so they could be identified. Sadly, many bodies were found with just such markings, but the bloated water-soaked corpses were in no condition to translate the numbers, written in a panic. Nagin had said the evacuation was voluntary. My building is high and I had no worries. My motto was, “I live on the fifth floor and I can swim—I’ll be fine.” But things changed when I hung up with Charlie, turned the TV to the one station I could get, and heard good ol’ Bob say the storm, later to be known as Katrina, was making its path right up the mouth of the delta. I didn’t need to hear much more than that. My mom lives literally on the bayou; the water behind her house leads directly to the Gulf. (Look on a map to find Bourg. My mother is about five miles closer to the Gulf.) I called my mom, as I was instructed.
“Mom, Charlie called about half an hour ago. He said to get your ass on the road. Looks like you’re going to Houston.”
“The hell I am!” she says. “What do I need to go to Houston for? Your sister is in the hospital and I have a brick house that withstood Betsy. I’m not going anywhere.” Click. She hung up on me! I mutter something like “stubborn old broad” and redial. “Look little girl, if you call me again, you better stay in New Orleans because I’ll beat you if I have to get out this bed to answer the phone again.”
The mountain of trash, known as Mt. Ponchatrain. Residents cleaning out debris from yards, homes, and businesses ran out of places to put trash. Since there was no trash collection for months, individuals starting bringing their debris independently to this site, located at the foot of the Ponchatrain Expressway, at the end of Bonnabel Blvd
“Mom, if the power goes out, you won’t have a fridge to keep your insulin. Let’s just go to Houston. We’ll make a vacation of it, and I haven’t seen Charlie’s new baby anyway. I’ll pick you up at 6 a.m., and for the love of God, can you try to be ready!? Let’s get some pavement behind us before the traffic gets too nasty.”
Everyone’s plan to evacuate consists of going west, just like the original settlers of the area. Must be in our DNA. Like a seasoned New Orleans native, I pack three days of clothes, a flashlight, a small blanket, and a couple gallons of water to contribute to the communal supplies. I live alone, so thankfully, the fridge was hardly stocked—a few oranges and a bottle of vodka. I figured that would be fine in there for a few days. After all, I’d be back, riding the streetcar to Camellia Grill next weekend…I thought.
I’m now in my car, on my way to Houma to pick up my mother and niece. We were assured my sister would be fine at Terrebonne General Medical Center. I go to my usual gas station on Magazine Street to fill up for the 75-mile drive to Houma. “NO GAS” read the sign. I repeat this nightmare five times before I finally get to Lee Circle where I fill up. Damn price gougers! $3.00 for a gallon of gas! Are they crazy?! I chalk it up to supply and demand. I shake my head and start up the ramp to catch Highway 90. I had no problems taking that route. I thought to myself, “This is awfully desolate.” Then it hit me. “I’m the only idiot who hasn’t left this area yet.”
The front of my condo building became an appliance graveyard. These victims of Katrina remained untouched (other than by Hazardous Waste workers and National Guard) until late November of 2005.
I pull in to my mom’s driveway. Not another car in sight. I see the Louisiana National Guard launching their boats in the water to look for shrimpers who haven’t docked. This would be the first of many encounters with the National Guard over the next three months. They see my press credentials in the windshield, we exchange waves, and I start to call for my mother. As I guessed, she was still packing. I look at her suitcase. “Three days, Mother! Zip that bag, let’s go!” She says something about having to pack outfits to go out while we’re in Houston. I notice an empty ice chest on the patio. “Did you just buy shrimp? What are you going to do if the power goes out? That will be gross!”
“We’ll only be gone for a few days,” she says. “It won’t be that bad. And when we get home, I’ll make a big pot of boiled shrimp.”
I call Cheeks. She’s my 9-year-old niece. Cheeks is on the phone with her mother. My sister was very ill, so moving her to another facility was not really an option. Finally, around 6:30 a.m., we begin the daunting drive to Houston.
We tune the radio to 870 AM, the station affiliated with WWL Channel 4. You’d be surprised how far that signal carried. Or maybe it just seemed far because four hours into the trip, we were still listening to 870 AM. What is usually a six-hour drive lasted almost twelve. I was already quite miserable. I had to leave my convertible at my mother’s house so we could take her BMW, or as I call it, the land-barge. I was wondering if my car insurance covers hurricane damage. What if the garage caves in? What if one of those magnolia trees uproots and falls right on my car?
We are now in hour nine of, I reiterate, what is supposed to be a six-hour drive. I’m in a rage at this point—along with several thousand of my new close friends. We see the same red minivan for hours, and after a while start to wave in a sort of, “I agree, this sucks,” camaraderie.
Now, I’m a Christian woman, and not usually one to wish ill to anyone, but road rage will affect even the most decent of people. We see several cars pulled to the side. More victims of fuel deprivation. We haven’t seen an open gas station in some time. Police are going by on the median to check for emergencies —heart attacks, new babies, heat strokes. Did I mention it is as hot as hell? Can’t turn on the air-conditioning because that burns more fuel. Fuel is precious and not to be wasted on mere comfort. The windows are down. Fumes from neighboring cars, the heat, and overall poor air quality is not good for Cheeks or my mother. Around hour 12 of the ride and very much in a horrid rage, I can’t help but yell, “There better be lots of f#&$ing bodies floating for this crap! I mean it—I want to see the entire city covered with corpses if I have to go through this! And if the city isn’t covered in bodies, it will be when I get back!” My mother chastises me for saying such a thing. “You know that won’t happen. You’re upsetting your niece! Say a Novena and keep your hands on the wheel.”
“Hail Mary, full of Grace, get this damn traffic moving!” “Catherine—STOP THAT!”
We arrive in Houston. Charlie’s house is certainly not modest. It’s quite roomy in fact, for the four people who typically call it home. Only problem now is, 16 people call it home, including various pets that have taken over the pool house. There are no available hotel rooms in Houston, which would be the case for months.
The rest of my three weeks in Houston are a blank. My therapist theorizes I’m suffering from shock. Although I don’t actually remember doing this, my mother claims I watched the news for 27 hours straight, getting up only to perform necessary functions. I sat there, watching the same footage over and over.
The only way I know what was going on in my mind is to read email I sent to dispersed friends.
Addendum Before going to print, we asked the writer for an update, as she’s been back and forth every couple of months. We asked for some photographs showing updates and repairs—the “afters” to her befores. This was her reply from New Orleans in late-June, almost one year post-Katrina:
Frankly, not much has changed since the storm. People are just now getting mail delivered to their homes. Prior to last week, people had to go to the post office, show an ID, and pick up their own mail. The street cars aren’t running, most businesses remain boarded, and crime has only gotten worse.
August 31, 2005
Email from me:
Lots of confusion going on trying to locate family and friends in New Orleans area. When you read this, please email back letting me know your status and where you’re setting up camp for the next two months. I’m ok, whatever “ok” means, at this point.
For those planning to return to Jefferson Parish & Orleans Parish next week, remember to bring your ID!! Martial Law is real, and apparently they don’t have a sense of humor right now.
Damage to Houma is minimal, according to the sheriff there. Mom’s house is ok, other than minor roof damage. Water did not rise above bulkhead around island. The condo on St Charles Ave has no damage reported as of now.
I am in Houston with family. My aunt and cousin suspect they lost everything. Just heard the parking garage at Clearview Mall is gone. I-10 Twin Spans are washed out.
Cell phone coverage seems to be spotty at best. Text messaging IS working, and probably the only chance you have to connect to family and friends. Most land lines are down. Flooding on St Charles is minimal—it’s the downed trees preventing passage. S Claiborne, between Napoleon and Louisiana, is under 8 feet of water. Looting on Tchop, Canal, and St Charles is unimaginable. Wal-Mart on Tchop has been looted—gun section went first.
My heart is broken as I watch my city fall apart in front of me. My memories, my childhood, my sense of self, is tied to this city. And today, I watched it burn to the ground, fill with water, and raped by the worst of the criminal element. There are scenes that look war zones. I have been crying all day, seeing the once graceful homes of New Orleans reduced to splinters. The almighty Superdome has been peeled back, revealing a damaged sphere of concrete. Thousands of refugees huddled in a dimly lit Dome…and for some of the poorest citizens of our city, this was their first time in the Dome, never knowing the joy of the Benson Boogie…. a dance we won’t see for a long time to come. Poydras St could pass for a canal in Venice, Italy, but this gondola was a door broken off from a store front, and the only song was the scream of distress from a stranded victim. My family and I will never be able to go to the Southern Yacht Club for brunch again. If the Fairgrounds ever reopen, a dinghy film from the fury of Katrina will always remain. And the saying from the ol’ timers, “the winds of Camille couldn’t move this hair” will now have to be adjusted.
The storm we all feared, the levee break we all feared, the chaos we all feared, has come to fruition. May God have mercy on us all and on the city that care forgot. I used to complain that this city never changes, but now, all I want is for my city to go back to how it was.
(August 2006)
