Cuisine
J U LY 2 0 2 1 40 GONZO-ING PARTIES
TO GONZO’S
// 4 3
PIROGUE
PEARLS
BRING
A
NEW BEVERAGE
EAT RICE TO YOUR
PIROGUE
W
Illustration by Alexander Cardosi
BOUDIN, BABY
Fear and Loathing on the Boudin Trail BRIDGING THE GAP BETWEEN THE PAST AND FUTURE OF LOUISIANA’S FAVORITE FAST FOOD
I
Story and photo by Jason Vowell
was somewhere around Krotz Springs, on the edge of Acadiana, when the hunger began to take hhold. Blasting down highway 190 with my headlights pointed in the direction of the Big Easy, I had skipped the continental breakfast at my Super 8 motel in Mamou and shot straight into the heart of the Louisiana boudin trail—a mad dash through Lafayette, Scott, Breaux Bridge, Opelousas, New Iberia, and every small town slaughterhouse in between. 40
I hit Billy’s and Don’s, Babineaux’s and Bergeron’s. I hit The Best Stop and Billeaud’s, Chops and Charlies, Kelly’s and Kirk’s. I bought boudin at Johnson’s and Jerry Lee’s, Juneau’s and Janise’s, Redlich’s and Richard’s. I was on the mission of a madman: to hunt down and procure dozens of links of Louisiana’s finest regional delicacies, then fly like a bat outta Hell back to New Orleans for an evening of culinary debauchery. I’d assemble a crew of diverse, discerning palates, and we’d try as we might to taste as many links of boudin as
J U LY 2 1 // C O U N T R Y R O A D S M A G . C O M
we could stuff in our bellies. The mission? A monumental task: for our own satisfaction alone, we would attempt to answer the burning question … Who really does make the best boudin? The trunk of my car looked like a meat market counter: coolers stuffed with still-steaming sausages—spicy boudin, smoked boudin, wet boudin, dry boudin; boudin with big hunks of pork, big hunks of liver; whole rice or mashed, smashed, and ground—all bound up in a casing that either possesses that signature snap when you sink
your teeth into it or is best enjoyed as a tube for squeezing. I remember thinking, “I feel a bit lightheaded. I should pull over.” So, I spun the tires into the gravel lot at Kartchner’s Grocery for something to take the edge off, to quell the growling beast in the pit of my stomach. Kartchner’s looks a bit like one of those saloons you see in old Western films: weathered railroad wood exterior and sun-bleached four-by-four pillars. The little warning bell jangled loudly when I pushed open the door. A wave of anxiety
