Mar-Apr2016_Final-FlipBook

RACELAND

W hen my nephew Henry was six, he requested an apron for Christmas. I was all over it. You see, the men in my family cook. My brother cooks, my father cooked and my grandfather was world famous, or at least famous in my world, for his turtle soup. In the 1950s, people came to Raceland from all over the bayou to dine at his restaurant, the White Tavern. He served heaping platters of fried frog legs, fresh caught catfish, redfish courtbullion and a very popular corn and shrimp stew, but he was legendary for his turtle soup. Papa came from a long line of nightlife entrepreneurs. His great uncle, Philip Guichet, was an owner of Tujaque’s, the second oldest restaurant in New Orleans, and his father and eldest brother, both named Armand, operated the Danos Niteclub and Tee-Lee’s Dance Hall on the bayou from the 1930s well into the early 70s. So when Henry announced his growing interest in cooking, I got right on line and ordered him a child’s size blue apron with his name appliquéd boldly across the front. Chef Henri had arrived, my personal belief in nature over nurture was greatly reinforced, and I shared a good laugh with my brother, sing song-ing our longtime family mantra, “You can take the boy out of the bayou, but you can’t take the bayou out of the boy.” Or girl for that matter. By the time I was born and growing up in Raceland and Thibodaux, the White Tavern was long into its autumn years, but nonetheless my memories are strong. What it lacked in customers at that time, it more than made up in warmth, patina and charm. And Papa ... well, I would describe him in just the same way. He was a tidily groomed man of very few words (if four or five words did the trick, you got four or five words) and little formal education. But his eyes sparkled with a definitive joie de vivre, and his sly smile made you feel like you were the most important person in the world. When I showed him my Tulane diploma in 1985 at his little house behind the long- closed White Tavern, he pretty much said the same thing that he said in 1969 when I proudly showed him my jump rope skills on his carport, “Mais cher, c’est ci bon. You want some turtle soup?”

White Tavern Turtle Soup Courtesy Rosella Bourgeois Bernard WHAT YOU WILL NEED 2 pounds turtle meat (available in Rouses Seafood Department) 3 tablespoons Rouses vegetable oil or lard Rouses salt and black pepper, to taste 2 large onions, chopped 1 large bell pepper, chopped 1 cup celery, chopped 2 garlic cloves, chopped 3 tablespoons flour 4 bay leaves 1 cup of tomato sauce 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce ½ lemon, sliced thinly Optional: potato salad, boiled eggs and sherry, to taste HOW TO PREP Season turtle meat with salt and pepper. Coat a large cast iron skillet with the oil. Render the turtle meat (cook until brown) at a medium to high heat. Remove the meat from pot. Reduce heat to medium. Add onions, celery, bell pepper and garlic and cook until tender. Slowly whisk in flour to make a “roux.” Return the turtle meat to the pot. Add tomato sauce and 1 cup of water. Cook for 30 minutes. Add lemon, bay leaves, Worcestershire sauce and 4 quarts of water (you may use stock instead). Reduce heat to low and simmer uncovered until soup reaches desired thickness. Serve with potato salad, boiled eggs and sherry to taste.

Turtle soup was our little tradition and whenever my dad said, “You wanna take a ride?” I knew he meant to Raceland and to the White Tavern. I loved the twenty- minute drive down the bayou. My dad would tell colorful family stories about an equally colorful cast of characters, and we stopped at tiny vegetable and fruit stands along the way. Creole tomatoes, okra, fresh green beans — my dad would speak French with old man so-and-so or we would just leave money in the tin can provided, an honor system that always mesmerized me. At the St. Charles Crossing, we would discuss if we wanted to switch to the other side of the bayou for the rest of the way, but we never did, unless we were heading to New Orleans. Often, as we neared the turn onto Old Houma Road, we would pull over if a handmade sign on the side of a truck was just too good to pass up. “Fat, fat crabs” was my all time favorite sign, and my dad called me that all through my teens as an inside joke. Of course, this was well before cell phones, and we never called ahead to the White Tavern. We announced our arrival by arriving. And the scene was always pretty much the same no matter the time of day. There would be a couple of barflies on the well worn leather stools drinking little ponies, and my grandfather would reach into a long, gleaming stainless steel fridge

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