Perpetual Po-boys

It's definitely not November, and we didn’t get anywhere remotely close to the newly renovated Oak Street corridor, but we somehow managed to subconsciously create our own personal Po-boy Festival. If you include the hot sausage po-boys we made Thursday night, the count of these iconic New Orleans sandwiches escalated to a copious amount for the weekend. Some were accidental. Some were planned. All were unbelievably delicious.

Following a night of shenanigans and swashbuckling at the oldest bar in America, we were in no shape to make it to the New Orleans Road Food Festival’s cutting of the longest oyster po-boy in the world. We were, however, able to rustle ourselves up enough to make it downtown to try some of the festival’s offerings. After making our way down 4 blocks of the vendor lined Royal Street and grabbing a few Covington Brewhouse Strawberries and LA31 Grenade (not the kind you see on Jersey Shore), each of us finally decided on our regional hangover cure and reviver mechanism. On their first leg of the Gulf South road trip from Missouri, Nate and Whitney jumped all over the alligator and grits, crawfish enchiladas, and a grilled shrimp and fried green tomato remoulade po-boy. Erin decided on the smothered chicken po-boy from Café Reconcile, and, even if unknowingly, possibly helped keep someone out of jail. I decided to go with a po-boy that was has become one of the signature dishes at a local landmark- an Oyster Foch po-boy from Antoine’s.

The po-boy, named for Ferdinand Foch, a Marshal of the French Army, serves as a World War I reenactment right there in your hands. A smear of foie gras on the French loaf represents the mud Foch trudged through during his campaigns, and the Colbert sauce (hollandaise with Worcestershire, tomato sauce, and sherry) symbolizes the blood of his lost soldiers (fried cornmeal crusted oysters). Don’t let the name or the coagulated-blood-like sauce atop the fried oysters fool you- this po-boy happened to be my personal favorite of this food festival, and was much more fulfilling than the turtle soup I passed on earlier in the day.

Since we missed parts of the French Quarter the night before, we made our rounds to the important daytime attractions of New Orleans' most historic neighborhood-the $1.50 Abita Strawberry and a $0.10 cups at Sidney’s, the free hidden bathrooms along Decatur and Chartres, and the ridiculously good daiquiris from Organic Banana at the ever-so-touristy French Market. All this eating and drinking and walking and more eating made us even more hungry (don’t ask how), so we decided to hop back on the Magazine bus (hoping that the crazy old lady that pushes me around like Nitro wasn’t on there again). As usual, our go-to spot for casual, semi-cheap food had an hour wait. Hunger was reaching an all time high, so we decided to skip the wait and headed a few blocks down to Tracey’s. If you have been keeping up, you should already know what was on my mind as we rounded 3rd Street.

The thick, rib sticking gravy cheese fries coupled with our rough morning made us decide to stay in for the night for a condensed Laurel Street porch session.

With Nate and Whitney well rested on Sunday morning and ready to head out for their second leg of their Gulf Coast tour, they decided they wanted a quick lunch. Since quick and lunch and Sunday don’t go together in New Orleans, I racked my brain for what seemed like an eternity. Amidst the foggy haze from within my head, something clicked. Freret Street Po-Boy and Donut Shop. Yes, the “Donut Shop” does belong there, and yes it is exactly as good as it sounds. We entered the corner shop as the smell of warm icing and fried seafood hit us harder than the window unit directly above the door. As the guy behind the counter finished up freshly breading Nate's oysters and dropping Whitney's shrimp into the vat of hot oil, I panicked and went with one of the specials written on the dry erase board adjacent to the counter.

The Eggplant Napoleon was constructed in the exact same fashion as its namesake. Deep fried slices of eggplant were layered between a thick creamy sauce studded with plump crawfish tails, and dressed the way all good po-boys should be. Once my elbows flared out into devour mode, I only surfaced to catch a quick breath before diving back into the basket. I didn't even realize that I forgot to offer anyone else a sample of this delicious sandwich until one of the always extremely polite staff took my empty tray away. All that remained from our weekend of po-boys was a glazed twist and a few crumbs of crusty Leidenheimer bread.