Mahony's Po-Boy Shop

Mahony’s fits the bill of a traditional New Orleans neighborhood po-boy shop. Besides the sign out front, they set up shop in a nondescript, converted Uptown shotgun. Since we live only two blocks away, the neighborhood feel of this Magazine Street restaurant is utterly unmistakable. We’ve been here a few times for some of their New Orleans’ classics, like an overstuffed fried shrimp po-boy. But the owner, Ben Wicks, utilizes his culinary talent learned at Rio Mar to create some specialty sandwiches that are both adventurous and delicious. Since it is practically in our backyard, we’ve even ventured out into his more inventive sandwiches on the menu, like the grilled shrimp/fried green tomato po-boy and the peacemaker (fried oysters, bacon, and cheese).

These signature po-boys are what have won this restaurant awards at the annual New Orleans Po-Boy Preservation Festival. Chef Wicks po-boy prowess has even garnered the attention a few celebrity chefs.

Unfortunately, one of the downfalls, for me at least, of gaining local and national attention is gaining an enormous following. Trying to get inside on a Saturday is like trying to get into a porta-john at Jazz Fest. We knew this already, so we slipped in on a humid Friday night. No huge crowds. Not even a line at the order counter. We quickly placed our order, grabbed a NOLA Hurricane Saison and waited for the forthcoming deliciousness at one of the tables in the half-full dining room. We waited, and waited, and then waited some more. The kitchen is the size of a small bedroom, and getting a seat in the dining room on most days is like playing musical chairs with Bill Goldberg, so I usually anticipate a lag between ordering and eating. But seriously, this was a slow Friday night. After looking around at all the miserable looking diners inside, we weren’t the only ones getting anxious; each time the saloon doors to the kitchen opened up, every head in the restaurant whipped around to see if their mound of butcher-paper-wrapped po-boys were on the brown plastic serving trays. The party next to us had never been here before and wasn’t prepared for the wait. After just 15 minutes, they asked the bartender how much longer it would be. She explained that all po-boys were fresh and made to order. True, but I’ve been in and out of Freret Street Po-Boy in 10 minutes, and they don’t even mix the batter for the shrimp until I order.

After 45 minutes, we finally heard our name called. Ah, there was hope. Regrettably, it was only our large order of fries (seriously, don’t be a hero, one order can feed 3 or 4 grown men). These hot, crisp, hand-cut fries appeased our appetite, but served as a mere teaser. Finally, after nearly an hour, our name was called again. Thank the Lawd. I almost had to break out into a Southern Baptist hymnal. With thick, spicy brown gravy bleeding through the chewy Leidenheimer bread and white butcher paper, you could already tell that Erin ordered the super sloppy roast beef before she even unwrapped it. Even though she proclaimed that it was a little to fatty for her, I like my slow cooked roast to have some of that melt-in-your-mouth fat intermingling with the tender beef. Wait, what the hell am I doing? I’m hungry, and I’m now wasting time analyzing a roast beef while ignoring my own po-boy sitting right in front of me. I hastily unwrapped my sandwich- a chicken liver and Creole cole slaw po-boy.

The crunchy Creole slaw, made with Creole mustard, provided a textural contrast to that characteristic organ meat texture of the golden-brown livers. The tanginess of the slaw also provided some flavor contrast by cutting through the minerally quality of the chicken livers. It’s the quality of sandwiches like this one that cause me to continually ignore the long lines and even lengthier wait here. Still, it perplexes me to have high quality po-boys right here in my backyard piss me off and soothe my sandwich soul at the same time.

“Garrett Hartley… good snap, good hold, he missed it to the left”

We continued the nothing-to-do-weekend that we started the night before by spending the entire Saturday grazing on the assortment of meats I picked up from Rare Cuts on Nashville Avenue, and watching college football. Erin started off the lazy, grazing Saturday with her version of hash browns that included a spicy chaurice sausage and sunny side up eggs.

After brunch, I recreated my TV setup from the opening game of the NFL season, and resumed my long-lost position in the recliner. At one point, I even had a game streaming on my laptop in addition to the two games already on the TVs. As soon as the Alabama-Arkansas (come on Ryan Mallet) game was over, I began throwing something together for supper while Erin yelled out the 1st quarter updates of the Georgia-Mississippi State game. In an attempt to go back to the future, we tried to reinvent a Veal Scallopini recipe that we both liked before. The only disappointment with the recipe was that we didn’t make enough, and that, apparently, the combination of Madeira and cream creates some sort of sleep aide that resembles Ambien. After the last few bites, I could barely even make it to the end of the LSU game.

I awoke the next morning at 6:45 and realized that my alarm never went off, and my ride to the Falcons- Saints game would be here in 15 minutes. I quickly threw on my black and gold and jumped in the car for the ride downtown to the tailgate on Rampart. I knew I was about to partake in some serious tailgating, but I wasn’t ready for the trailer that had been retrofitted with 2 portable 8 foot grilles, 2 10 gallon propane tanks and lines, a water tank with a pressurized hose, more 6x9s than a 10th grader’s first car, and enough storage shelves to stow away every utensil or spice you could ever need.

I also knew that there was going to be some serious tailgating fare. I watched as the tailgaters injected 7 “dirty birds” (a special for the Falcons game) with their homemade marinade, and then hung them from the hand fabricated racks in a U.S. Army issued M59 field range.


While the chickens were slowly roasting, the tailgaters mixed up an absurdly large batch of dirty rice which included 8 pounds of seasoned ground beef. Also on the menu, two things that are singularly delicious, but when combined, takes on a life of its own- rotel cheese dip and crab boiled potatoes.

After spilling a plate all over my feet, I grabbed a few slices of hog’s head cheese and a mini muffuletta and started the journey to The Dome.

After parading through Allegro and the newly renovated Champion’s Square, and crossing the Bridge of Death we made it into the dome just in time for Drew Brees’ entrance.

Even though The Dome was a raucous crowd, it proved to not be enough to force Hartley’s kick through the uprights (I’m still not sure about the decision to kick on 1st down either). Downtrodden and beaten, I gathered my free Saints flag from my first trip to an NFL game, returned home, and crashed for 4 hours.