Boudin Sausage made by Rene Louapre. Photo by Renee Bienvenu.

The heart of boudin country lies two hours west of New Orleans in the flatlands surrounding Lafayette. There, boudin is nearly as omnipresent at a gas station as lottery tickets and cold beer. Make it a habit when traveling to towns like Mowata or Scott to keep an ice chest in the back of your car, and your freezer will always have links of boudin ready for an omelet or to be grilled and placed inside of French bread. Boudin in New Orleans is still a recent phenomenon, though, exploding with the recent wave of chefs looking to hone their charcuterie skills as much as their knives.

It was into this fascination with boudin that the Emeril Lagasse Foundation waded, staging on a Friday night in November what had to be the largest and most wide-ranging collection of boudin ever attempted. The aptly named Boudin & Beer used the power of the two eponymous markers to raise money for a variety of programs run by the Lagasse Foundation, including sizeable investments in a culinary program at NOCCA. Boudin & Beer preceded Carnivale du Vin, a Bacchanalian display of culinary extravagance which took place the following evening, also to raise money for the Lagasse Foundation.

Boudin, like any great dish, is one that showcases the personality of the cook more than anything else. (See also: red beans, roast chicken, gumbo, et al.) Do they like things spicy or do they prefer to let the liver shine through? Are they a fan of smoking the boudin or letting it crisp on a grill? Is the meat coarsely chopped or finely ground?

At Boudin & Beer, there were creamy tamales stuffed with boudin and perked up with fiery red chili sauce from Aaron Burgau of Patois fame. An Italian offering of boudin came from Alon Shaya of Domenica, which, save for the risotto used, was rooted in ingredients common to South Louisiana. With its duck liver and streaks of pig skin, it could have passed muster at any hunting camp. There was traditional boudin from Donald Link and Company, blood-rich boudin noirs from Mario Batali, an antelope sausage topped with Grand Marnier-soaked onions from Commander’s Palace, and an Asian broth with shrimp sausage and rice noodles from MiLa. More than 20 chefs each put their mark on boudin with very solid results.

If I made boudin, what would it say about me?

Which is how a month before Boudin & Beer, my wife came home to find 30 pounds of frozen pork liver defrosting in the fridge. On the counter stood an industrial meat grinder, six pounds of pork shoulder, seven cups of uncooked rice, onions, and other seasonings. Soon the house would be filled with a heady aroma of cooking pig parts, cayenne, and the unmistakable smell of fluffy cooked rice. There were pots and pans everywhere, an LSU game on the radio, and cold beer at the ready.

After simmering for about three of those beers, the liver, onions, celery, peppers, and pork shoulder ran through the coarse dye of the meat grinder. This mealy mixture then combined with the rice and some of the stock it had cooked in to create boudin. The hardest part was stuffing the boudin in the paper-thin casing. The casings first needed to be threaded onto an extruder, a plastic tube jutting out from the business end of the grinder. After much swearing and tearing of the casings, stuffing commenced. Soon, through the extruder flowed a creamy blend of Cajun staples—pork, rice, and seasonings. Once complete, some of the casings simmered in water before getting slathered with mustard. Others went onto the smoker. A few segments were simply split open and their contents fried up in some butter—my favorite way to eat boudin.

My boudin turned out softer than I would have liked, its texture hovering somewhere between pudding and baby food. I should have used less stock or more rice. It could have been saltier, but the heat level was right on point, the result of using jalapenos in place of green peppers. At Boudin & Beer, I recounted the process and recipes used to Link, who would simply respond with a piercing glance and say, “Why the hell did you deviate from my recipe? That recipe was tested eight times, more than any other in my book. That was all your fault, rookie.”

I can only hope to repeat that same advice to someone else in the near future.

Scott Boswell. Photo by Elsa Hahne.

8:41 a.m.

I am one minute late to meet Chef Scott Boswell. Immediately the cell phone, Twitter, and my email begin alerting me to this fact. When I finally walk up to the exterior of Stella!, his fine dining restaurant on Chartres Street in the French Quarter, Boswell is already walking towards the Ursuline Convent a block away. “Hurry up, I have a lot to show you today.”

9:13 a.m.

The previous tenants of the Old Rocheblave Market in Mid-City have left: a meat cutting market, a stone company, and the auxiliary meeting place of the church across the street. Plans are unfurled onto a table for what Boswell has dubbed The Paint Factory. Peering over them are a contractor, a mechanical engineer, a craftsman who will fabricate the hood, and Boswell. “Why you decided to call it the Paint Factory?” asks the hood guy in perfect New Orleans patois.

“Because I am an artist who paints with food, and this is where our primary colors—stocks, mother sauces, general prep—will take place. A painter needs his yellow to be exactly yellow, his red, exactly red, everyday,” Boswell says.

Having the Paint Factory handle most prep will remove the daily frustrations that can bleed into the basics of cooking while also freeing up space in tight French Quarter kitchens. No longer will a stock pot constantly simmer on the stove at Stella!. Gone is the daily requirement for a cook to make gallons of gumbo for Stanley while also clarifying butter, brunoising vegetables and butchering fish.

Quickly it becomes clear that every minute detail of this project has been thought over, obsessed and chosen by Boswell himself. He explains the height of the counters and how the kettles will instantly chill stocks and soups with childish enthusiasm. Talk comes back around to the exhaust system and Boswell interjects: “Listen, don’t believe the bullshit the air vent people are going to tell you. These steam kettles aren’t ever going to be above a bare simmer. We don’t need that big of an exhaust.”

Later, he says, “The more you are not involved in the project, the more money goes out the door.”

9:45 a.m.

As we ride back to the French Quarter, Boswell mentions that the Paint Factory will also allow him to create again. But this time rather than creating foie gras BLTs or poached eggs laced with hollandaise and fried oysters, he wants to figure out a way to make healthy foods trigger the same chemical reactions in the brain as fried or fatty foods. “A chef has a role to provide healthy, edible food to his customers, so I want to spend the next few years figuring out how to make really good healthy food,” he says.

Boswell gets a call from the industrial psychologist he has hired. “You get people who are saying they are looking for a job, but really they just want a paycheck. We don’t want those people,” Boswell explains.

10 a.m.

The elegant bar of Stella! has become a holding cell for the contents of the kitchen. A liquid nitrogen tank the height and width of a collegiate wrestler stands next to speed racks, hip-high steel refrigerators and a futuristic microwave that cryovacs foods into air-tight pouches. A team of cooks stands at the bar sipping espresso. Boswell walks into his newly re- floored kitchen with just the range standing in the center, turns on his heel towards the cooks, and says, “Let’s put it back together.”

After service on the previous Sunday, Stella! closed for business to allow cosmetic touch-ups in the kitchen and the dining room. In three days, the kitchen floor was re-epoxyed, walls were painted, and other maintenance issues were addressed. Stella! won’t open for dinner service for another day, but it takes two days to get the beast back on line.

As two cooks roll that liquid nitrogen wrestler back in, a third checks in produce against carefully arranged clipboards hung on the wall. Jumbo carrots? Check. Huckleberries? Coming tomorrow, Chef. Iberico ham? Check. Boswell notices they have completely sold out of caviar. With a few swipes on his iPad, more is ordered. Tomato season in Louisiana has ended, so red, green, yellow and purple tomatoes are shipped in from Ohio. He instructs the sous chef to get more involved in the selection and screening of foods coming in the kitchen. “I want you tasting everything all the time,” he says.

Boswell notices a new cook looking a little rough this morning and tells him, “You are French; you should be used to this.”

The cook responds, “Yes, but I am from the South (of France). We are used to sleeping in.”

11:23 a.m.

Stanley is not quite humming yet. There is a steady stream of rain which is keeping the tourists and lunch crowd away from Jackson Square. The initial business plan called for Stanley to be doing 500 covers (restaurant speak for diners) after three years of being open. They hit that number within two months; Stanley now does 700-900 covers a day. “Hence the importance of the Paint Factory,” Boswell notes.

11:41 a.m.

After a quick lunch at Stanley of muffaletta po-boys and croissants stuffed with Thanksgiving staples, we are next door at the Stanley Service Bar. Here, one can grab a cold beer, ready-made sandwich, or ice cream cone. But the real jewel is the caffeinated snowball. Yes, you read that correctly. Each of the Service Bar’s snowballs comes with the option to have it jolted with 124 milligrams of caffeine. Boswell sees this as a natural capture of the energy drink market. “You eat a burger, you may get tired,” he says. “But with a caffeinated snowball, you won’t get tired.”

12:07 p.m.

Back at Stella!, the kitchen is back in place and prep cooks are busy at work making breads, frying plantains and zesting lemons. In the dining room, a painter touches up the walls while chatting idly on his cell phone. Seeing this, Boswell takes a photo with his iPhone of the yapping Michaelangelo. “I am going to send it to his boss and ask, ‘Is this why he is $45 an hour?’”

Boswell goes back into the kitchen and begins singing to the prep cooks. He will later tell me that if he is singing in his kitchen, his cooks are happy because it means things are going well.

3:27 p.m.

We are driving across the Mississippi River and Boswell is telling me his path to becoming a chef. He grew up in and around the Lake Charles area, his mother only 17 when he was born. His childhood was one marked by “nothing much really.” There was lots of music in his house growing up and he played the piano, guitar and saxophone. After graduating from high school, he set out to become a dentist but dropped out of college. He went to work at a bank for the next eight years, but quickly saw that without a college degree the best he could hope for was Joe the Bookkeeper’s job.

Photo by Elsa Hahne.

He then bought a pet store but stopped after he couldn’t bear to part with animals he had sourced from around the world just because some five-year-old wanted a pet. His parents had divorced and his mom moved to Birmingham, so Boswell went there as well. While waiting for another bank gig to start, he took a job in a restaurant.

That led him to the Culinary Institute of America at age 31 with the goal of opening a restaurant by the time he turned 40. “I grew up without any real direction,” he says. “My parents never really instilled confidence in me. When I headed to the C.I.A., I was scared shitless and really doubted whether or not I could do it.”

After the C.I.A., he served as a stagiare—an unpaid cook—in a number of European restaurants, where again he faced self-doubt. Within 15 minutes of entering his first kitchen in France, he promptly cut himself while deboning a veal breast. After a year, he headed to Italy where the younger head chef had no time for this American who thought he could cook. The self-doubt crept in again. But in that kitchen was Masahiko Kobe, who would go on to become an Iron Chef. Kobe took Boswell under his wing.

Boswell came to New Orleans and worked in a few kitchens before he became executive chef of a resort in Montana. By late 2000, he was ready to come back to New Orleans. Stella! opened in 2001 on a shoestring budget of $100,000 and with one month to spare before he turned 40.

4:12 p.m.

We pull off a service road in Avondale onto the palm tree-lined driveway of the future site of NOLA Motorsports Park, a 60 million dollar project financed entirely by a member of the Chouest family. When complete, 5.6 miles of track—the largest in the country— will ring luxury homes, lakes, go- cart tracks and another Stanley. Augusta meets the Autobahn.

Boswell will have a home there, complete with another test kitchen and a five acre farm. Also parked there will be Boswell’s Ferrari, which he takes on the road occasionally to compete against other chefs such as Daniel Boulud and Thomas Keller. “I still worry even now: Can I do it? There is more coming. Failure is not an option anymore.”

5:05 p.m.

We swing down Decatur close enough so Boswell can see a good crowd outside of Stanley. His phone rings. It is his forager on the Northshore who has peaches, chanterelles and other goodies. “I’ll take all you got. Can’t wait to cook with them,” Boswell responds.

I ask him if he still likes to cook. He begins to tell me how everyone who works for him wants to cook, so his role is now more of a teacher. This should allow him to focus more on creating, but as cooks move up in his organization, they want to show that they can create as well. But just last night around 10 p.m., he decided he needed to cook. He roasted a small chicken, steeped cous cous in the juices and some chicken broth, and then made some vegetables. Boswell pauses for a moment and then says, “Yeah, I still love to cook.”

Wendy Waren at her converted 1950 Curtis Mathes television home bar. Photo by Elsa Hahne.

According to the people who track these sorts of things, real cocktails are the new black. A genuine cocktail made with an intoxicating liquor or two, some rare bitters, and a generous shake over chipped ice has replaced the martini bar, cigar bar, wine bar and beer garden. May the peanut butter and jelly martini never return.

As restaurants and bars place little-known liquors and exotic elixirs behind the stick, home cocktailians rush to convert the wine cellar or home brew area into a bar worthy of a visit from Kingsley Amis. Paul Tuennerman, co-founder of Tales of the Cocktail explains, “Personal bars are just that, personal. They’re very telling of the individual, their level of sophistication, particular drink preferences and entertainment style.”

Tuennerman splits his time between two bars. One is in the bathroom vanity of the 900-square foot apartment he shares with his wife, Ann, in New Orleans. A space normally reserved for hairbrushes, toothpaste and other sundry items has now become the best stocked bathroom in New Orleans. His other bar is on board his sailboat, “Mr. Cocktail,” which he keeps in Dallas. There, bottles are stashed in bilges, drawers and engine compartments.

Ray Bordelon’s home bar began with one spoon. One day while perusing an antique store on Magazine Street, he discovered a flat, shovel-shaped, slotted spoon and wondered what it was. What Bordelon held in his hand was an absinthe trowel, and the point at the end of the spoon is intended to help the drinker mix and break up sugar in the bottom of a V-shaped glass. The slots drip water through sugar and into the pale elixir, turning it a creamy green.

Bordelon’s house, a picture-perfect Greek Revival in Uptown New Orleans, is now studded with treasures, all celebrating his love of the ritual of drinking absinthe. “I equate drinking absinthe with a Japanese tea ceremony.” Bordelon says.

Downstairs is the modest absinthe bar, a high-backed curio cabinet filled with bottles bearing the names Kubler, Vieux Pontarlier, Marteau and others. A small, marble-topped counter is filled with glasses, spoons and bistro saucers emblazoned with prices on the lip of the plate. Those prices, and sometimes colors, could allow a waiter to total up a patron’s check in a moment’s notice and keep the sweat from the glass from soiling someone’s clothes.

Upstairs is a recreation of the original layout of what was first called the Absinthe Room, but is now known as the Old Absinthe House. A 10-foot bar anchors a back wall. On top, a marble obelisk crowned by a golden statue stands ready to dispense cold water. More bottles of absinthe line every open flat surface. Posters from the late 19th Century implore patrons to drink Pernod. There are tables and chairs, some set with packs of cigarettes and playing cards, others with glasses and old French newspapers. Bordelon’s bar is a Belle Epoque masterpiece.

In general, most of Bordelon’s collection comes from French antique hunts he goes on once a year. The reason reflects a cultural difference in how France and America took their doses, which is the proper term for a ration of absinthe. In France, the waiter at a café would bring you a carafe notched with dose marks, a glass of water, a specific absinthe glass, sugar and the absinthe trowel. The customer in France would then mix his drink to desired strength. In America, the drink was made for the customer by the bartender.

And how does Bordelon indulge in the Green Fairy? “I am a traditionalist,” he says, “I like mine with sugar and the water to be dripped over the sugar and into the absinthe.

History also plays a part in Wendy Waren and Drue Deshotels’ home bar. Well, one of their bars anyway; they have three official bar areas in their Irish Channel house. When Deshotels’ grandmother passed away, the only thing he wanted was an old, hulking 1950 Curtis Mathes television. Warren, Deshotels and a friend spent a weekend converting the television into something more useful: a bar. They replaced the screen with a glass panel that reveals a collection of liquors from around the world. Leather tufted bunting, wheels to make it portable and a vintage bar lamp complete the transformation from boob tube to booze cruiser.

Five o’clock is the customary cocktail hour in the Waren/Deshotels household. Their cocktail ritual is usually a drink before dinner and sometimes with dinner. While Waren does not have a routine cocktail, she likes to play around with luxury cognacs and flavored spirits. Her favorite cocktails usually involve St. Germain, pear cognac, Domaine de Canton, or Luxardo. “Right now, I’m drinking a cocktail with grapefruit juice, simple syrup, Luxardo and club soda,” Waren explains.

For Tuennerman, a home bar is a party space. For Waren and Deshotels, it’s a creative thing, while Bordelon’s bar allows him to “see, taste, feel, hear and touch history.” All are the hallmarks of a good bar, no matter where it’s located.

Photo by Kim Welsh.

During a memorable set at last year’s Jazz Fest, Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam took to the bully pulpit and skewered BP for the disaster that was becoming the Deepwater Horizon. In not-so-kind words, he strongly encouraged BP’s executives to send down their sons and daughters to clean up the oil spill.

At that time, the great tide of fear had begun setting in not just in southeast Louisiana, but around the globe. Fear not just about what was happening to the ecosystem attached to the Gulf of Mexico, but fear of a selfish kind. Would we be able to eat ice cold, raw oysters? Would the piping hot fried shrimp po-boy become a legend of the past like Lafitte’s treasure? Would trout meuniere, sputtering with butter, still be the non-meat punishment for Catholics on Fridays in Lent?

Into this backdrop, one may be expected to find the seafood vendors at this year’s New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Fest pissed off and fed up at what the oil spill has done to their business and livelihood. Instead, Mike Gowland, a vendor at Jazz Fest, is upbeat and confident. “Save for the price going up a small bit, I haven’t had any trouble sourcing my shrimp,” Gowland said in early April.

Gowland serves alligator sauce piquante, shrimp and grits, and shrimp and okra gumbo from his perch in Food Area I. The alligator is all sourced from alligator farms that would not have been affected at all by the BP Oil Spill boondoggle. His shrimp are still plump, Louisiana U-40-50s (meaning 40 to 50 shrimp per pound). Gowland buys them peeled to save time, but other than that, they are as natural as they day they were caught.

Gowland credits the Louisiana Seafood Marketing Board with doing a tremendous job in getting out the message that Louisiana’s seafood is safe. Ewell Smith of Louisiana Seafood Promotion and Marketing Board has spearheaded a campaign not only to deal with the crisis on the Gulf Coast which he says is just now ending, but also to get the word out to all areas of the country that Louisiana seafood is safe and ready to eat. “We have transitioned from the crisis stage to a marathon,” Smith says.

Armed with dedicated funds and a national PR firm, the debate can now be framed on the reality—Louisiana seafood is safe— rather than the perception. “Our production levels are back across the board save oysters,” Smith says. “Only reason oyster production is down is because of the fresh water diversion projects. But oyster production should be back to pre- spill levels in two to three years.”

Oysters are the filtration system of the Gulf Coast. “And they are just as good as before,” says Jeff Levi. Now in his 26th year at the Fest, Levi began selling oyster Rockefeller as a way to get oysters into Jazz Fest. Originally, there were concerns of pieces of oyster shell getting lodged on the track, which could harm the ponies.

Levi will go through anywhere from 150 to 200 gallons of bisque this year, a process which begins about a week before the event. Levi will slowly simmer lobster stock, herbs, aromatics, spices, Louisiana Herbsaint, heavy cream, and a peanut butter-colored roux for 4-5 hours. This mixture is then quickly chilled and transported to the Fair Grounds, where it will be reheated. Just prior to service, Levi will sauté meaty Louisiana Select oysters until they puff up, then layer them on top of the soup with a grating of Parmesan cheese to mimic the classic dish made famous by Antoine’s.

Levi also mentioned that the only noticeable difference in the oysters post-BP Spill is that pricing has gone up. “Sometimes that is just the cost of doing business,” Levi says in a taciturn manner.

When we spoke by phone, Levi had just returned from his oyster purveyor to check on the quality of the oysters he would serve at Jazz Fest. While he doesn’t preclude the BP Spill as the major reason for the price increase, he quickly points out that seafood prices always “jump every 4-5 years for some reason or another.”

The great fear referenced above seems to rank up there with the Boogie Man and showing up to school in your underwear. For now, it is time to focus on reality. A reality filled with plump, salty oysters, sweet shrimp, fatty crabs, and fresh fish from the Gulf and her estuaries.

James Moises (left) and Nicolas Bazan (right). Photo by Elsa Hahne.

It is a well-told tale that Americans cared little for wine until the mid-’80s when a 60 Minutes report revealed the French Paradox. The French Paradox, in short, goes like this: eat whatever you want, but especially foods high in fat from dairy or animal products, and supplement your diet with three glasses of wine per day. If one did this, heart disease and other ailments would seemingly vanish. Enter wine drinking as hysteria and big business.

Shortly after the French Paradox came out, Dr. Nicolas Bazan found himself giving a talk at Jordan Winery on wine’s other healthy side effects. Dr. Bazan had discovered that more than just a talisman against heart disease, wine can help stave off Alzheimer’s. Working for Bazan in his research lab was a young med student named James Moises. Fast forward 20 years and both doctors are producing wines of stunning clarity from the Willamette Valley in Oregon.

Bazan grew up in Argentina and through a series of events found himself in New Orleans in charge of neurology research at LSU Medical Center. He remembered that when he first moved to America, no one drank wine. “You would go to a dinner party—this was in the’60s—and there would be cocktails in huge glasses before dinner, but no wine with dinner. This was strange to me and my wife.”

While Dr. Bazan found himself drawn to wine based on his heritage and research, Dr. Moises discovered wine through his friend and native Oregonian, Mark Wahle. “Mark and I were both residents at LSU together,” Moises says. “Like any plan, the one we had to start making wines was hashed out over many, many beers.”

Wahle had gotten his undergraduate degree from UC-Davis, a school well-known as the Harvard of the Vines. After finishing their residencies in New Orleans, Wahle moved back to Oregon and Moises stayed in New Orleans. The friends stayed in touch and in 2002, Moises and Wahle partnered to develop the winery that would become Moises Wines, with 2006 being their first vintage. In 2004, Bazan decided he also would like to make wines. The 2006 vintage was also the first release of Bazan Wines. To further complicate things, some of the Bazan grapes come from the Wahle Vineyard owned by, you guessed it, Mark Wahle. Got all that?

Both doctors entered the practice of wine making in part because drinking wine is good for your health. But it goes beyond polyphenols and anti-oxidants for Bazan. “Drinking wine is also beneficial to how we eat,” he says. “In America, breakfast, lunch and dinner tend to be serious, business-oriented approaches to dining. Wine at the table is the driver of enjoyment and digestion.”

Certainly, there are enough wines to make all of us happy and healthy, so why did these two doctors decide to make their own? For Moises, it was the opportunity to combine his joint passions of teaching and taking care of patients. “In many ways it is the same. I see patients in the hospital; I tend to the vines in the vineyard,” he says. “I tell patients which medicines to take; I tell consumers which wines to drink with what foods.”

For Bazan, making wine represents a convergence of his lifelong pursuits. There is science in winemaking, in measuring the sugars of the grapes and in controlling the temperature of fermentation. As an ardent fan of jazz music, Bazan notes the artistry in knowing how long to age a wine or in blending wines from different plots of lands. “A jazz musician must know the rules to break the rules,” Bazan points out.

And finally, there is the opportunity to make a wine that can be enjoyed at the table. “I have always loved the simple pleasures of the dinner table,” Bazan says. Both doctors make wines that are to be enjoyed at the table, but specifically at the New Orleans table. The tannic Cabernets and flabby Chardonnays made by the giants of California do not mesh with the cuisine of the Crescent City. Both produce Pinot Noirs with higher levels of acidity than the cherry coke-favored pinots that too often come from California.

Bazan says his wines shine with a plethora of foods common to the New Orleans table. “Meat, pinot is much better with meat than Cabernet. Seafood; especially the type prepared by places like Rio Mar (where Bazan’s son is a partner) and Emeril’s. This wine shines with the traditional food at a place like Antoine’s or Galatoire’s; and it helps coat the esophagus, which means better digestion of spicy foods,” he explains.

For Moises, his Pinot Noir sings best when served alongside a simple filet of redfish with a light meuniere sauce that has a little kick of cayenne. The grocery stores, wine shops, restaurants and wine bars of New Orleans are filled with wines designed to appeal to Joe Q. Public. But hidden in those lists and aisles are a few wines built by New Orleanians for the New Orleans palate. Seek them out and drink them up. Doctor’s orders.

Dean Pigeon (pronounced Pea-jean) of Pigeon Caterers has been taking care of the bellies of the world champion New Orleans Saints at their facility on Airline Highway since the spring of 2001. Pigeon provides meals and snacks to the Saints players, coaches, staff and administrators throughout the year, but his season really picks up during training camp, when Pigeon serves 150 breakfasts, 250 lunches, and 175 dinners a day, all the while keeping the larders stocked with ice creams, fruits, snacks and the players’ favorite chocolate chip cookies.

Pigeon has spent nearly his whole life in the food industry, but it was through luck of the draw that he ended up as the caterer for the Saints. One day in 2000, Pigeon found himself catering a luncheon at Rummel High School with some higher-ups from the Archdiocese in attendance. This being New Orleans, “I got a call the next day from someone at the luncheon saying their daughter worked for the Saints and they were looking for a caterer. A couple interviews later, I got the job,” Pigeon says.

Saints Tackle Jon Stinchcomb (with ice pack on shoulder) and Dean Pigeon.

The dining hall of the Saints would make any high school jealous. A long buffet anchors one end. Black tables and chairs line down the hallway, and flat screens tuned to ESPN adorn the wall. Large coolers hold juice, sports drinks, Häagen-Dazs bars and other goodies. But Pigeon says it was not always this luxurious, “There was no cafeteria when we started. There was a basketball court that the team put a tent over. You’d come in here and the ketchup would be bubbling in the bottles due to the heat.”

Cooking for men who burn thousands of calories in one practice presents a unique set of challenge. Under previous head coach Jim Haslett, fried foods were verboten. Now, coach Sean Payton tells Pigeon fried chicken is okay, just make sure there is baked chicken also available. Other nearly indispensible elements of New Orleans cooking like butter and heavy cream sit on the sidelines while turkey breasts, whole wheat pasta and salads see the field.

Whether it is a kid in grammar school or a college-aged kid in a dining hall, every cafeteria-goer has one meal that is their favorite. At the Saints facility, sandwich day brings out everyone in droves. Pigeon and his crew will set up countless stations so each person can make his or her own sandwich, panini, or yes, even a po-boy, which is a point of pride for Pigeon. “I got them eating po-boys now. They used to say, ‘What is this? A sub?’ Now they ask for a shrimp po-boy.”

In a typical day during the season, Pigeon will go through 75 pounds of fresh fruit, 50 pounds of starches, including rice and potatoes, 200 chocolate chip cookies, 200 chicken breasts, 40 turkey breasts, and 50 pounds of red meat. He gets special requests from the players as well. Reggie Bush is a well-documented junk food hound. He’ll ask Pigeon to go down the street and get him four foot-long Sonic Dogs. The requests don’t stop with players. Saints owner Tom Benson has called upon Pigeon’s services to cater private events or locate a bottle of Silver Oak when the mood calls for celebrating. The one general rule is the bigger the player, the better they eat. “The skinny guys, like wide receivers and cornerbacks, they love bacon. Bigger guys won’t touch it,” Pigeon says.

Besides providing breakfast and lunch, Pigeon provides the coaches with dinner each night. Monday nights are steak nights where each coach gets his steak cooked the way he wants. On other nights, Pigeon may pick up hamburgers from the Harbor, or Italian from Impastato’s. But every Thursday, it is pizza night in the film room. During last year’s miraculous run to 13-0, those Thursday night pizza orders came strictly from Rotolo’s under direct orders from Coach Payton. The reason why was an example of Payton’s notorious superstitious ways, “That was where we ordered from the Thursday before week one,” Pigeon says.

Pigeon, a lifelong Saints fan, is not without his own superstitions, some of which include driving a precise route to the game, wearing the same shirt, and cleaning his house when things aren’t going well. It is this dedication to the Saints through thick and thin that earned him the greatest tip any food service worker in this town could ever get: a Super Bowl ring, the most gorgeous creation in Tiffany’s history (in this writer’s opinion).

Defensive Coordinator Gregg Williams, an NFL journeyman, claims the Saints have the best food service program in the NFL. Sportscasters and scouts have spent months dissecting why and how the Saints won the Super Bowl. But the answer is simple: the New Orleans Saints have the stomach of a champion.

Sean Thibodeaux, Clever

The Bloody Mary has her fans, but Sean Thibodeaux is not one of them. “I hate them,” he says. He does like the idea though of something spicy and eye opening, which is why he developed the Aztec. This heat-seeking missile of the morning combines Plymouth gin, jalepeno-infused Chartreuse, Regan’s Orange Bitters, and the oil from the zest of an orange into an at first bracing, ultimately smoothing cocktail. The cocktail also riffs on the Martinez, one of the original cocktails. The orange flavor lurks throughout the drink in the background, always there but never overpowering the luscious, spicy Chartreuse or the focused bitters.

Allison Negrotto, The Court of Two Sisters

When Allison Negrotto thinks of orange cocktails, her mind immediately goes to one of the great, all-but-forgotten classics, the Navy Grog. Not only does it represent the embodiment of orange for Negrotto, but also shows the generational divide between drinkers.

“Today, young people order vodka, cranberry and orange instead of saying Sea Breeze,” Negrotto explains. A Navy Grog puts a Polynesian twist on the original boat drink of the British Navy. The rum rations given to Her Majesty’s Navy bordered on the non-potable. So, clever sailors combined their daily ration with lemon juice (to ward off scurvy), sugar and cinnamon. Today, a Navy Grog blends light rum, orange juice, sour mix and orange Curacao, making more palatable rum even more so.

Neal Bodenheimer, Cure

Sometimes the decision to use orange in a cocktail purely rests on economic principles. At Cure, the barkeeps and apprentices use a large amount of zests and peels of oranges to flavor cocktails, but not much of what Bodenheime describes as the flabby juice. So he issued a challenge to his bartenders to come up with a cocktail that used at least three-quarters of an ounce of juice. The winner was bar manager and partner Kirk Estopinal’s New Kind of Water. The refreshing combination of Lillet Blanc, St. Germain, orange juice, Angostura bitters, and a little bit of vinegar on the rim of the glass makes for a delicious summertime cocktail.

Alan Walter and Sharon Floyd, Iris

Alan Walter and Sharon Floyd tend the boutique bar at Restaurant Iris, where their concoctions have combined ingredients such as pine needles and strawberries with rum for a taste of Ponchatoula. Walter and Floyd also used orange juice as a way to use extra oranges. Their creation, The Twin Span, utilizes orange juice and lemon juice to tone down the herbal notes of the chartreuse in the cocktail. Served up in a jewel-like glass, the cocktail was “really a lark. Just something we tried and our friends liked it. So it is here now,” Walter explains.

Star Hodgson, Loa

Star Hodgson chose to use the Gaelic embodiment of Aphrodite—A’ine—for inspiration to craft a cocktail based on the St. John’s Eve Festival. “When I think of summer, my mind immediately thinks of orange blossoms dangling on the trees,” Hodgson says. Into a glass she muddles peaches, an ounce and a half of Tanqueray gin, four drops of orange blossom water, lemon juice, and simple syrup. After mixing the cocktail, she burns the zest of an orange over the glass to give it an aroma and a mythical quality. “It is cleansing, rebirth by burning the zest of the old to bring out the white flavor of the orange blossom,” Hodgson says. Tasting the result of Hodgson’s lyrical mixology, one is immediately transported to a spring evening in New Orleans with sweet olive, jasmine and citrus trees in bloom. The kick from the gin will put you in an even better mood.

This little experiment proved a few things. Cocktails and the people who make them are no longer bound by the rules laid out by Mr. Boston. And the screwdriver is the Salisbury steak of cocktails.

Chef Aaron Burgau of Patois. Photo by Elsa Hahne.

When Jazz Fest releases the “cubes” each year, eager beavers begin mapping, plotting, and GPSing their way around the grounds. But real fans of Jazz Fest know the only real planning you need to do is deciding what you are going to eat.

Especially if you are a chef. Jazz Fest crowds can make or break a restaurant’s year, so many chefs can only get out to the Fest for one day if they get there at all. If they make it out, though, they make sure that they make it count in the flavor and calorie departments. They come to eat, and they eat well, so pay attention.

Carl Schaubhut is the New Orleans-born and raised chef who moved to Florida after Katrina, where he opened Fire Restaurant. He knows his way around the festival, but he only gets one day at Jazz Fest a year. While Crawfish Monica and alligator pie are definitely on his list, he must seek out and devour a Cuban sandwich every year. “It is beautiful because it is simple,” Schaubhut explains. “Nicely roasted, juicy pork, salty ham, perfectly melted cheese, crispy bread, and zing of the mustard and pickle.”

Schaubhut’s sandwich of choice goes perfectly with another Jazz Fest staple for him: ice cold beer. Beer also figures prominently in the meal plan of Chris Lynch, chef at Meson 923—a new Warehouse District restaurant— as well. He and his friends camp out near the Acura soundboard and whenever someone gets up, the group collects money and tells them not to come back unless they have beer and something good to eat.

A duck flying south stops to eat in the marshes of the Delta, but when Lynch steps foot on the grounds, he makes a direct assault on six or seven crawfish pies. He will eat them in quick succession doused in Crystal hot sauce. That is his moment in the sun. But Lynch is always looking for a new taste. Seeing Vietnamese offerings like spring rolls and bun last year for the first time reminded him of his first trip to Jazz Fest in 1996, “I had no idea what Jazz Fest was, and I remember being blown away by the food,” he says.

The breadth and depth of food offerings at Jazz Fest is explained no better than by the grand dame of Creole cooking, Leah Chase: “You go to other festivals and they have rinky-dink foods like corndogs and hamburgers. Jazz Fest is unique because it serves food-food.”

For Ms. Leah, that means the absinthe-flavored oyster Rockefeller bisque or a hot sausage po-boy from Vance Vaucresson. Be mindful, though, that calling it a hot sausage po-boy will brand you as an outsider. To Chase, the proper nomenclature for any self-respecting Creole is a chaurice po-boy.

The roux doesn’t splash far from the pot, as her grandson Dooky Chase, also loves the po-boy from Vaucresson. But Dooky, who now runs the kitchen of the restaurant with the same name, cannot go to Jazz Fest without also devouring a crawfish enchilada or fried soft-shell po-boy from the Galley. Dooky likes the latter because “the bread is so soft, but the crab is fried so that it is perfectly crispy.”

About that soft-shell po-boy, Ms. Leah adds, “it perfumes the whole grounds with the heavenly scent of seafood frying.”

Sometimes though, the classics just win out. Jared Missy of La Boca rarely makes it out to Jazz Fest, but when he does, a fat loaf of crawfish bread is a must. The much-loved Jazz Fest staple has legions of fans and has become a guilty pleasure for some. All that bread does help give one the energy to play in the sun for hours on end.

At Aaron Burgau’s restaurant, Patois, the kitchen deftly turns fresh Louisiana products into creative and delicious culinary masterpieces. But at Jazz Fest, he only has eyes for meat pies. The hot and crunchy shell and spicy filling make him wistfully remember high school days spent sneaking into Jazz Fest through the cemetery. Burgau buys a brass pass now, but still reaches for that meat pie. Plus, he adds, “They will always give you heartburn, just a little pain in return for the pleasure.”

To combat that heartburn, Burgau, along with Schaubhut and Lynch, makes sure to bring in a special supply of rum or vodka. That way they can turn the PG strawberry snowball, mango freeze, rosemint or mandarin ice tea into an R-rated beverage. Consider the secret revealed.

No matter what you decide to eat this year, you will enjoy it. For one, you are outside and food always tastes better outdoors. Second, you, unlike Warren Stephens, chef/partner at Cochon Butcher and Calcasieu, are not at work. “Jazz Fest?” he asks. “I haven’t been to that since probably 2002.”

Photo by Elsa Hahne

In the last 15 years, chefs have undergone a remarkable metamorphosis. Back in the day, a cook and a waiter would meet working in someone else’s restaurant. After a few drinks one night, they would hash out a plan, save their money and open a small place together. The chef was not well- known and even more rarely seen. The maitre d’ was the face of the restaurant. When clientele bragged about being able to get a table at any time in the city’s hot restaurant, it was because they knew the maitre d’, not because they did the chef’s taxes.

All of that has changed. Chefs are ambassadors of a brand. They have a flagship restaurant and roll out concept restaurants which combine things like Mexican street food with a bowling alley in Reno. They have cookbooks and seem to spend more time talking about food than cooking it. Yet, through it all, Patrick Van Hoorebeck has always just been a maitre d’. And looking around the New Orleans dining scene, not only is he one of the best, he is unfortunately one of the last.

Born and raised in Belgium, Van Hoorebeck has been a fixture in New Orleans dining circles for decades. Versailles, Peristyle and the Rib Room are just a few of the restaurants that have benefited from his presence. He has most recently landed at Restaurant August, the flagship of John Besh and Octavio Mantilla’s growing culinary empire. “When they brought me here, [John and Octavio] said to me, ‘you are home now,’” says Van Hoorebeck, “and they really meant it.”

To watch Patrick (pronounced “Patreeck”) work the room is akin to watching a conductor lead a symphony. With a crooked arm, he escorts your date to the table and offers the two of you a glass of champagne as you settle in. A whisper to the captain delivers a plate of hot bread and butter.

He may touch the back of a waiter’s arm, a seemingly innocuous movement which results in a canapé or two before your meal begins. Van Hoorebeck will circle back many times before the meal is over. Each time he brings a gift. Perhaps it is
a taste of Fernet Branca, a story, or maybe even a smile.

While a cook may begin his day at four a.m. by heading to the market to smell fish, Van Hoorebeck begins his day in a much more dignified matter. He gets dressed, always to the nines, sits down, and has a glass of champagne at eleven in the morning. He picked up this “habit” while working in a brasserie in Brussels as a student. “Every Saturday morning, and I mean every Saturday, this gentlemen would come in dressed impeccably. He would sit at the bar and order a glass of champagne. And I said, ‘One day I would like to be that way.’” says Van Hoorebeck.

If it is a Saturday, Van Hoorebeck will make his rounds. He visits the Ritz-Carlton, the Windsor Court, and a few other select hotels, dropping off freshly baked chocolate chip cookies to concierges (another occupation losing relevance in today’s information overload environment). At lunch, he may drink a touch of wine. Champagne is his “vice of choice”, and Chateauneuf-du- Pape—that rich, earthy Rhone stalwart—his favorite red wine.

Wine has become a particularly fun diversion for Van Hoorebeck. While working at other restaurants around the city, representatives from wineries around the world have sent him large format bottles of their wines, which Van Hoorebeck proudly displays and enthusiastically drinks. “When I turned 50, I had a party called “50 at 50.” I opened 50 of those bottles and invited 50 friends. It was a good party,” he explains.

His love of wine blends his professional and personal life with harmonious results. Ten years ago, on the Friday before Mardi Gras, a New Orleans Friday lunch turned into an impromptu parade. That group of diners has evolved into the Krewe of Cork, and Van Hoorebeck presides over it as King. The Krewe of Cork “parades” two Fridays before Mardi Gras. They drink wine and waltz through the streets of the French Quarter. In any other city, that would be called a major event; in New Orleans that is pre-gaming.

Attention to detail is critical to Van Hoorebeck’s job. He claims he can read a diner immediately and tell if it is a first date, anniversary, or business meeting. Depending on the occasion, he will adjust the service accordingly. He believes one can judge a restaurant based solely on two criteria. “The first thing I do when I go to a restaurant is use the bathroom,” he says. “I want to see if it is clean. If they care about the bathroom, it will show everywhere else. And I always order coffee. Why? Because that is the last thing a diner tastes, it should be perfect to send them away with a smile.”

There is little national celebrity for someone like Patrick Van Hoorebeck. No chance to have a reality series or a collection of maitre d’ inspired suits. But given the choice between another celebrity chef’s line of grilling sauces and one more Van Hoorebeck, the choice seems obvious.

See extra photos taken at the shoot for this story

Photo by Elsa Hahne

Tucked away in a strip mall along Harrison Avenue is the kind of no-frills, cold beer, stiff drink, good food hangout every neighborhood wishes they had. Lakeview Harbor, the iconic meeting spot for the residents of 70124, turns out one of the best burgers in the city.

Made with fresh ground beef, the burger arrives with a charred and crusty exterior protecting a juicy and flavorful interior. Feel free to top it with whatever your little heart desires: a mound of grated cheddar or a pile of grilled onions, but we recommend avoiding the canned mushrooms The standard side is a baked potato loaded with your choice of toppings, but you can substitute steak fries, sweet potato fries, or tater tots for a small upcharge.

The burgers are thick and cooked to order, so choosing an appetizer to tide you over is likely in your best interest. They fry everything here, from mushrooms and mozzarella sticks to crabs cakes and potato skins. The “Harbor wings” are rolled in a spice mix, and these bone-hot, crunchy wings are the punk rock cousin of soft, billowy beignets, with powdered heat replacing powdered sweet.

While the burger is the star of the menu, other sandwiches deserve your attention, especially the tender filet mignon. In fact, all of the sandwiches are good, save for one critical element: the bread. With so much care given to the meat, cooking and toppings, these sandwiches deserve a stronger foundation than a structurally weak, spongy bun. A simple improvement there would make these some of the best sandwiches in town.

911 Harrison Ave. 486-4887. Sun-Thu 11 a.m.-11:30 p.m., Fri-Sat 11:30 a.m.-1:30 a.m.