Sultry New Orleans is one of the hottest – in all senses of the word – destinations for tourism on the planet. For some, N’Orleans (pronounced N’ahlins), as the locals call it, casts its magic with sweet jazz and blues, best heard in a steamy dive on the second floor of a crumbly antebellum-style building where the music drifts through the French doors and wrought-iron balcony into the streets below. For others, it’s a pilgrimage to Anne Rice’s mansion, or a ride on the streetcar named Desire, or the bacchanalian craziness of Mardi Gras that sucks them in.
Then there’s a whole army of tourists who visit New Orleans for the sole – or is that soul? – purpose of eating. And what a glorious eaters’ paradise it is. English novelist William Makepeace Thackery described New Orleans as the "city in the world where you could eat and drink the most and suffer the least". Of course, that was long before all those sidewalk bars served take-out margaritas and daiquiris in plastic cups.
But Thackery was definitely on to something, even back in Victorian times. Bouillabaisse. Catfish étouflée. Spicy turtle soup. A beignet hot from the oven, dripping with icing sugar. From the old world glory of Antoine’s, dating back to 1840, to the three food temples owned by celebrity chef Emeril "Bam" Lagasse – and don’t forget the sandwich bar down the street with the best po’boys (that’s a sub to us Canucks) in town – the city is a melting pot of so many styles and approaches to cooking it’s tough not to get caught in a culinary conundrum. What causes the greatest confusion of all are the two twins of cooking born and raised in Louisiana: Creole and Cajun.
To a lot of us northerners (that’s what we’re called in bayou country), the two terms are interchangeable. Whether we’re there, in the heart of swampland, or back home in the coastal rainforest, we loosely apply both descriptors to some kind of "southern" spicy fare. It’s likely chicken or seafood, maybe "blackened" or in a gumbo, served with a bottle of Tabasco sauce, a rice/bean combo, and/or cornbread on the side. Sounds to me like Cajun, or is that Creole?
Many stalwartly-held clichés about the two styles of Louisiana heartland cooking have fallen away in recent times – that Creole is more sophisticated and urbane, while Cajun is more country-style and features any critter from the swamp: crawfish, alligator or turtle. But in fact, you’ll often find that the two share classic dishes, as well as levels of spiciness. To make matter more confusing, restaurants touting themselves as Cajun have very similar menus to those dubbed Creole, and vice versa. Gumbo, the region’s signature dish, doesn’t shed much light on the subject; it’s a mainstay of both Cajun and Creole cooking. A distinctive roux is used in both, as are virtually all the meats, fish and shellfish found in the inland waterways and the Gulf coast.
To make matters more confusing, both styles of cooking are described as Louisiana French, which, authorities will point out, is not truly French at all. (The "French" tag was slipped in to distinguish them from soul food and other local cuisines). And both draw heavily from First Nations’ cuisines. Then we have the fact that Cajun cooking is a little spicier than Creole, but not always. And Cajuns like a lot of rice, but Creoles like it, too. Cajun cooks are likely to put all the ingredients in one pot, while Creoles prefer the ingredients separate. Well, most of them do.… At some point, you just have to shrug and enjoy what’s on your plate, whether Cajun or Creole.
The following vignettes, drawn from Peter Feibleman’s American Cooking: Acadian and Creole , paint charming images of the great Cajun/Creole divide. I’m not sure you’ll still find such dinners played out in Louisiana today, but they speak volumes about the origins and settings of the two cuisines, not to mention the classist overtones surrounding them.
On an early summer evening in one of the elegant antebellum homes in the French Quarter, Madame LeBlanc is overseeing the preparation of a Creole dinner party. She expects an exact number of guests to arrive precisely at 7:30, when the shadows of crepe myrtle and white jasmine merge outside. Cocktails will be served along with stuffed, baked mushrooms. A second hors d’oeuvre of shrimp – small, pink, sweet river shrimp fresh from the Mississippi – comes with a butter/watercress dip. The first course will be a daube glacé , chopped jellied meats, followed by a bisque d’écrevisses , a noble crawfish bisque made from the ignoble "mudbug" of the Louisiana swamps. Next comes a silver tray of sautéed fillets of Gulf pompano, followed by a glass of Calvados to "put a hole in your stomach so there will be room for more food."
The main course: roasted quail served on beds of wild rice and diced ham in exquisitely woven baskets of fried potatoes. That’s followed by a salade Napoléon of romaine lettuce and cucumber in a peppery vinaigrette, then plates of assorted cheeses, icy champagne, and small strawberry cakes. Dark café brulot , black coffee laced with brandy and liqueurs and heated with clove-studded orange peel, tops off the evening.
A hundred miles away, the same night air is just beginning to flow, and we find the country kitchen of Madame Chartrand, who is in the midst of a Cajun dinner. The number of guests is uncertain, as is the time they will arrive. Some might bring game or fresh fish they’ve caught themselves – white crappie, blue crabs or crawfish. None of this matters, for a good Cajun, or Acadian, cook ("Cajun" is simply a corruption of the word "Acadian") is nothing if not flexible. While she pays as much attention to food as any Creole cook, to the richness, the careful combinations, the strength and spiciness, she also takes pride in being queen of " le make-do ".
On the stove simmers a black iron kettle of seafood gumbo with crabs, shrimp, okra and spices. In the oven are two wild ducks from an earlier hunting trip, stuffed with herbed rice and basted till they’re crisp and juicy. If the kids bring home crawfish they caught in the river, she’ll cook those, too. She checks the sweet potato-pecan pies cooling on the side shelf and arranges pecan lace cookies or a plate, while her son measures out brown sugar and cream for a batch of pralines.
To avoid any undo angst over identifying the Cajun/Creole twins, I suggest when you’re in New Orleans, head over to Decatur Street for a light snack that transcends the whole debate. Get yourself one of the fabulous peacemakers, made with a whole pint of fresh-shucked oysters, carefully deep-fried, and served with lettuce, tomatoes and the requisite slather of tartar sauce on New Orleans’ style French bread.
Better yet, try a muffuletta (dubbed as "Creole-Italian" by some earnest food writer, but let’s not go there). This big round decadent sandwich is really more of a meal for a couple of hungry folks. It was first created in 1906 by Salvatore Lupo, the Sicilian-born genius who started the Central Grocery on Decatur, where you can buy one today. Specially-made muffuletta bread, sort of a cross between focaccia and classic Italian bread, is stuffed with layers of Genoa salami, ham, provolone cheese and a distinctive thick mixture of olives and other goodies.
Making a muffuletta at home is one of the few excuses you’ll ever have to put a big heavy dictionary to work for you in the kitchen. You use it to compress the bread and filling together while the olive mixture works its magic. Try it – it’s a great party starter when your guests put their beer in the fridge and come eye-to-eye with Oxford. Have them look up "Cajun" and "Creole" while they’ve got the door open.
SIDEBAR:
Muffuletta
10-inch round Italian loaf
1/2 lb salami
1/2 lb provolone, mozzarella or Swiss cheese, thinly sliced
Filling paste:
1/2 cup pimento-stuffed green olives
1/2 cup pitted black olives
6 1/2 oz. jar marinated artichokes, drained
1 to 10 cloves of garlic, minced
1 tbsp. minced jalapeño peppers
1/3 cup parsley, minced
1/4 cup good olive oil
Chop or process the filling ingredients to a spreadable consistency. Cut the loaf in half horizontally and remove enough bread to leave a 1/2-inch shell all around. Spread the bottom of the shell with half the filling. Layer the meat and cheese slices on top, and cover with remaining filling. Press the top of the loaf on the sandwich and wrap it tightly with plastic wrap. Place something heavy like a dictionary on top and chill for several hours. Cut in wedges with a serrated knife. Serves 2-10, depending on how hungry you are.
Play around with the ingredients. After all, this is a recipe from New Orleans and you too can be queen, or king, of "le make-do".
