French-Accented Spanish Moss - Chapter 4: Raw Oysters


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North America » United States » Louisiana » Abbeville
December 28th 2007
Published: January 23rd 2008
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You like them or you don't. There's no in-between...
“I think I’ll pass on the alligator bites for today, sweetie.” People here refer to pretty wait staff as “darling”, “sweetheart” or some other term of endearment.
The pretty twenty-year-old leaned towards me at the counter and offered another suggestion from the menu. “Our oysters on the half shell are just the-”
“No, thank you.” Just the thought of the slimy raw arthropods getting near my throat causes me to involuntarily gag up one of my lungs. Seated ext to me are Mom, Dad, and son enjoying three dozen of them served on ice. They eat them on cracker wafers doused in a combination of ketchup of an assortment of Louisiana hot sauces. No matter how they are dressed up, there is a reason Black’s Seafood Restaurant and Oyster Bar posts a disclaimer about consuming raw shellfish. I plan to adhere to it. The family turns around to me and greets me. I stare at their gelatinous meal and fail to hide a slight scowl on my face.
“Oh, you don’t know what you’re missing!” the mother genuinely exclaims.
“Looks delightful” are the only words I can manage. “But I already ordered the gumbo.” In true local fashion, she offers me
CondimentsCondimentsCondiments

Tabasco is one of many hot sauces available....
a half shell and I politely decline and keep my esophagus from contracting at the same time.
I actually like seafood…when cooked. I meet all the cajoling for me to order crawfish with an uppity complaint that I do not want to work that hard for my meal. It requires shelling, tearing, pulling and a few other aerobic exercises just to get to the edible portions. My disdain for the laborious task creates quite a scene across from me. One of the families insists on ordering me some and offering me a lesson just to prove me wrong.
Black’s has reached iconic status in Abbeville. It occupies a former department store in the center of Abbeville right across from Dupuy’s and the Riverfront, two other seafood establishments of esteemed repute and heavy patronage. Part of coming to Abbeville and Vermilion is dining well. If in search of white linen table cloths and multiple forks on the left side of the plate, New Orleans would be a better option. Leave the suit and tie behind. No one cares. In Abbeville, a clean shirt, jeans, and an appetite are proper attire. I usually leave writing about food to those who get paid to obliterate budding restaurants with the written word for the sheer fun of it; it is not my style unless the food and service are really bad. Having jumped from one establishment to the other, there are few spots in the United States where seafood can be savored as completely as Louisiana. Just please put the oysters into the broiler! Between a salty and dark seafood gumbo at Black’s, the crab cakes at Dupuy’s, and the stuffed shrimp at Shucks!, I can hardly lodge a complaint. Becoming full is a disappointment. It means I cannot point to another item on the menu.
All the same, I have often found myself back at the counter in Black’s. The soft joining of exposed brick and treated timber creates a perfect ambience. The prices are fair and the beer is cold. Customers come and go at the counter; almost every one has wished me a good afternoon or immediately comments that I am not from around here. What is it about me? The shirt? My notebook? Perhaps. It might be because that if a longtime resident of Abbeville doesn’t know a particular person at a table, then he or she simply isn’t from Abbeville. Then again, just to confirm anyone’s suspicion of my out-of-town origins, all I have to do is open my mouth and let loose with an accent that does not blend in with the locals’ twang.
My temporary status in Abbeville means nothing to Jimmy, who has come in to the lounge to post a flyer for a benefit being held next month. His mother has recently passed away, leaving him and his siblings with a mammoth amount of debt. He presents the yellow sheet to the manager who gives it a thorough examination. Jimmy unnecessarily pleads for some help. The manager shrugs his shoulder and declares unemotionally, “Seems OK to me. No problem.” Within five minutes, the flyer is taped down at the countertop in front of the shirts and ball caps at the merchandise display case. It is the most prominent place in the restaurant and will catch the most number of eyes.
Jimmy’s only travels took him to Vietnam during the War. I do not like to pry into war stories, although it is the only place outside of Louisiana the man has ever known. Such provincialism does not apply to Jimmy exclusively. Like many of the baby boomer generation, his Cajun roots have kept him in Abbeville. As far as he is concerned, if it is not in Vermilion Parish, he really doesn’t need it. All he wants in life is within a short drive. In his purple L.S.U. jacket and yellow-billed cap, he retells the same story of having to learn English as a primary school student and the barriers Francophones faced in the late fifties.
“So there I was in first grade. I was very scared. I didn’t understand anything the teacher was saying.”
I briefly butted in, “Did the teachers know you didn’t speak English?”
“Of course they did! But they didn’t care that much.”
“Were you the only boy or girl in that situation?”
Jimmy snapped back, “No! There were many of us! Didn’t matter. We were not allowed to ever speak French. Most of us kept quiet. I felt I didn’t belong.
“Then the funniest thing happened on the first day. We started to learn the numbers in English.” This made sense: keep it simple and show them they can make progress in little time. “So, the teacher said to the class, ‘Say one’. And we do. Well, I didn’t quite get it, but I followed along best I could, you see. Then, she said in a loud voice, ‘Say two’. So, I stood up, went out of the class, and walked home.”
I scrunched my eyebrows. “You did what? Wh- Why leave?”
“Because I did what the teacher told me to do, and it was the only thing I could understand. Remember, I was a little boy then. The teacher told me to go home as far as I knew.”
I was perplexed and just stared at him awaiting an explanation.
“Richard (Jimmy pronounced my name Ree-SHAHR), she said ‘Say two.’ But in French, I heard ‘C’est tout’. ‘That’s it’. You know, ‘It’s over’. C’est tout!”
He’s right. There’s almost no difference in pronunciation. I chuckled at the sight of a confused boy nonchalantly walking out in front of the rest of the class.
“Well, when I got home, the school had called my mother and I was in trouble on my first day of school!”
“You did tell her what happened right?”
“Sure I did. But I was a boy and did not know what was happening. I did not know those were numbers. I did the only thing I could understand. My Momma gave me a good yelling. Jimmy held his words for a moment. He was still grieving of her recent passing. “But I never walked out of class again.”
Jimmy’s other winning quality is his passion for L.S.U. football. After a few days in Vermilion, I’d think the coach, Les Miles, could run for Governor unopposed and no one would put up a fuss. The man walks on water, or marshes in Vermilion. The football team and the institution are indistinguishable in the public’s eye, a sad reality common throughout the United States. Jimmy can recall every toss and turn, ebb and flow, failure and success of L.S.U. football dating back decades. He spoke to me as if I had the same energy and acumen for the subject as he did. The man is a walking College Gameday of selected Tiger highlights of the Southeastern Conference. Want to know who was the backup left guard for the team in the mid seventies? Ask Jimmy. His true appeal manifests itself in his use of colorful metaphors. Once in an argument about an upcoming game against Florida, he accused a family member of underestimating the punch of the opposition’s offense or special teams. “So I told him, ya gotta beware of the bite of a gator. Ah, but he just didn’t listen to me!” He pounded his fist on the counter. Jimmy personifies teams’ mascots to emphasize his points. “Watch the scratch of those Wildcats in Kentucky! They can git ya if y’er not careful! Don’t matter what their record or time of year.” There is no question where to find Jimmy on Saturday afternoons in October. He will not be spotted shopping for bargains at Dollar General.


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24th October 2008

yummy
i love weird food like raw oysters. i have tried frog legs, escargo, and my favorite food... sushi. yummmmm. i don't know if i would try alligator bites, though. did you go to the hospital for gagging up a lung? mmmmmmm... new orleanes....

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