French Quarter Kisses. Zuri Day

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СКАЧАТЬ let me help you with that.”

      “I’ve carried heavier burdens in my lifetime,” Ma insisted, though she readily allowed Pierre to take the tray of steamy goodness and place it on the table beside them, while Roz, knowing the drill, carefully bunched up the newspaper and placed it in the now empty red bucket.

      “What all do we have here?” Pierre removed two small bowls from the tray, lifting one to his nostrils before setting it down. “Red beans and rice with, what’s that, andouille or boudin?”

      “Neither. That’s Ma’s sausage. None else like it nowhere.”

      He stepped back so Ma could set down piping-hot plates of jambalaya being transferred from the tray to the table.

      “Ma, this all looks amazing,” Roz said.

      “Smells even better than it looks,” Pierre added.

      Ma replied in her traditional fashion. “Bone appetite.”

      He’d barely sat down before picking up his fork to spear a chunk of sausage swimming in the bowl of beans and rice. He placed the nugget in his mouth and closed his eyes as he began to chew.

      “The usual suspects,” he began, still chewing. “Thyme, paprika, bay leaf, sage...” Swallowing, he turned admiring eyes toward Ma. “But what’s that sweet undertone? Nutmeg? Ginger?”

      “That’s for me to know and for you to never find out. Knowing that here is the only place you can get it will keep you coming back.”

      “No doubt, I’ll be back.” Pierre tested the jambalaya. “Ma, this is divine. I need to spend some time in your kitchen.”

      “I guess I could use a dishwasher from time to time.” She winked at Roz while Pierre laughed, and walked back into the kitchen, a smile clearly showing that his compliments were appreciated.

      For the next few minutes, the deliciousness of Ma’s food dominated the conversation. But midway through the jambalaya, Roz repeated her earlier question to Pierre.

      “You were telling me about your experience during Hurricane Katrina. What was that like?”

      “You first. Where were you when it hit?”

      “Out of state, Columbia, Missouri, preparing to enter my first year at Mizzou.” At Pierre’s raised brows she added, “University of Missouri.”

      “Why didn’t you attend college here?”

      “I wanted to. My mom wanted me to go to Southern, or Tulane. But my dad is a Midwesterner and felt that spending time outside my home state would broaden my cultural horizons. Plus, the University of Missouri has one of the best journalism programs in the country. So it wasn’t a long argument. Dad won.

      “Watching that storm on TV, and the events that unfolded afterward, was surreal. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the videos I saw and the town I knew. I wanted to come back and cover it, write an article for the school paper. Of course, my parents forbade it. Too dangerous. I was livid, sure I could cover the events in a way foreigners couldn’t. Foreigners being anyone not from New Orleans.

      “Looking back, I know they were right. I may have been ready to write a story, but I wouldn’t have been ready to see in person the aftermath we all witnessed on TV, or handle the emotional and psychological aftereffects.”

      Having dealt with those aftereffects for more than a decade, Pierre understood.

      Both became quiet—somber, reflective, remembering a moment in history that few who witnessed it could ever forget. Pierre wanted to, wished he could, and continued to steer the focus away from those painful memories.

      “They made it out, your family?”

      “Yes,” Roz answered. “Our home wasn’t in the major flood area, but my parents didn’t want to take any chances. One of my uncles lives in Atlanta. They left before the storm hit. What about you? Where were you when it happened?”

      “A few blocks over.”

      “From where we are now?”

      He nodded.

      “In one of the areas hardest hit. That had to have been a painfully frightening experience.”

      “It was.”

      “Did you have to be rescued?”

      “Almost. We were able to get on one of the buses headed to Houston where...we have family.”

      “So your whole family was displaced. Mom, dad...”

      “My sister and I.”

      “And your parents stayed here?”

      “My mother raised us. She stayed behind to help my grandmother. It was a traumatizing experience that’s hard to talk about. I survived it by focusing on what was ahead of me, not by looking back.”

      “Yet while living in Houston you ended up at a restaurant called New Orleans.”

      “It wasn’t planned.”

      “How did it happen, you working at a restaurant that bears your hometown’s name?”

      Pierre shrugged. “Needed money.”

      “McDonald’s wasn’t hiring?”

      “I’ll admit that the name of the place drew me in. I missed the food we’re known for and wondered if the place lived up to it name. Of course, I couldn’t afford to order a meal. So I asked for a job instead.”

      “Ingenuity in action.”

      “More like desperation, but whatever, it worked.”

      “They hired you as...”

      Pierre smiled and looked toward the kitchen. “A dishwasher. And to my great surprise the food was delicious, just like back home. I was there for about a month, glad to be eating good and earning a steady paycheck, when one of the prep cooks quit unexpectedly and I volunteered to take over. The work was tedious, but the kitchen atmosphere—infectious. The workers loved and often fought like family. But during service all hostilities were dropped for the sake of synchronicity. That’s when I discovered the mechanical and scientific aspects of cooking, the work that went into each perfect plate. Marc orchestrated each player’s movements like a conductor leading an orchestra. Everyone’s role was important, from dishwasher to head chef. Don’t get me wrong. The work is hard, the hours long. And if you’re running the kitchen, it can consume your life. But I found it fascinating, began staying late and coming in early, learning how the kitchen ran, how things got done. Marc noticed my interest and took me under his wing. My culinary journey continued from there.”

      “Your ability to adapt is impressive, especially after such a horrific experience. And you were how old? Nineteen, twenty?”

      Pierre looked sheepish as he answered, “Fifteen.”

      “Didn’t that go against child labor laws?”

      “It СКАЧАТЬ