I found Coco Hut because of a shortcut. Heading to Jazz Fest, we cut down Bayou Road and, on a corner that I’d never noticed before, I saw a stand piled with tropical fruit parked outside a restaurant door. I made a note to return.

When I went back, I discovered a tiny space perfumed with a thick mix of spices that tickled my nose and made my stomach rumble. Reggae played on the radio, and the television was tuned to a Jamaican station. Spray-painted slogans covered the concrete floor wher...