Rides and Tales

Observations From Behind Bars

Lost Cajun

with 4 comments

Honesty and open lines of communication are mainstays of a successful marriage, so when I began to crave some boudin (BOO-dan) I opened right up and admitted it to the luckiest woman in Flour Bluff.   She, thereupon, confessed to a willingness to ride the 100 miles to the Lost Cajun Restaurant and acquire said boudin.

Now, if you’re one of those unfortunate folks who live outside the cultural influence of the Cajun people of Southwest Louisiana, you may not be familiar with boudin, a wonderful loose sausage also called boudin blanc, white boudin, because a main ingredient is rice. Imagine that.
It doesn’t sound like much, and looks like less, but once it’s tasted, you’re hooked.

We set off from the center of art and culture at 4:00 pm, Saturday and moseyed mechanically through the city.  Once on the ramp to the span that bridges our harbor
(called, “Harbor Bridge”) I noticed I was somewhat hemmed in by cages, a couple of which had “Obama” bumper stickers.  Concerned that they might do something stupid, I twisted the wick and managed to get some space between us and them; the view from the Nueces Bay Causeway is nice when you can relax.

Once off the State’s super slab, and on a Farm-Market road that cuts through the fields of cotton and grain behind the town of Gregory, I felt that our excursion had finally begun.

We rolled along “past houses, farms and fields”, as the song goes, and into areas where you can see to the horizon without spotting a power line or gas well.  Some places are pasture, giving us a glimpse of how the terrain must have looked to the Karankawa and Copane people, before the Spanish occupation.

It was a great summer day, slightly cooler than usual, the wind was down and we had the two-lane pretty much to ourselves. In good time, we arrived at the Lost Cajun Restaurant.  I ground-tied the big girl, so she wouldn’t wander off, and we went in and made ourselves to home.

I like that there is a Castor Bean plant at the edge of the patio.  They are reputed to be poisonous.  When I was a youngster, long before every unfortunate incident spawned a new law named for a child or a disgruntled politician’s wife, there was a campaign to rid my town of “Castor Bean trees”.  Some proto-Oprah decided we needed to do it “for the chil-dren”, I guess.  At any rate, this plant makes me smile, knowing that the meddling do-gooders  can’t get us all.

We poked our heads inside the restaurant, told the waitress that we’d be dining  “al fresco (Italian for ‘on the patio’)” and looked around for just the right table.  It was only chance that kept us from putting our boots under that one that was occupied by the resident cat who, we were told, was sleeping off blueberry cobbler and ice cream.

Our waitress, the lovely and charming, Michelle, intuited that I was there for boudin and got me supplied while we perused the menu.  She told us that the original owners were, once again, running the show. That suits me just fine, jalapenos had begun making their way into the food, under recent management. The damned things don’t belong in red beans and rice any more than they belong in corn bread.  Michelle recommended the “Cajun boil”.  A boil is shrimp, crawfish, Andouille sausage, corn on the cob and new potatoes all spiced up and cooked together, brought out in a colander and dumped in front of you on the butcher paper-covered table.  Such a thing has been known to cause northerners to go into culture shock and temporarily lose their regional accent.

“Did I steer you wrong?”  She already knew the answer, there was nothing left on our table but a bottle of Tabasco and a heap of shells.

I had to pass on dessert, fearing that consuming more food would put me into a stupor while behind bars; we drank up and pointed our wheel south.

The sun settled below the horizon just before we turned into the west and made that last run across the bays and into the city.  I must live right.


Written by fiddle mike

August 1, 2010 at 3:23 pm

Posted in Texas, travel

Tagged with ,

4 Responses

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  1. Some of us like obama-oprah.

    Need more pictures of the sexy granny and less of the ugly dude who ties his valk down like a donkey.



    August 1, 2010 at 8:26 pm

  2. I lived in Florida as a kid. Mom had a Castor Bean plant in front of the house. We would pull the beans off the plant and pelt the neighbor kids with em. They hurt. Ah those were the days….


    August 1, 2010 at 10:06 pm

  3. That is really my kind of food, my kind of restaurant! I hope that one day I can put a USA tour together and give you a call so that you can show me your favourites. We would enjoy having a meal and a beer or two with you and the luckiest woman.
    That picture about “Ground tying” your bike?? I’m curious about that one, how does that work?

    Andrew aka the Rider

    August 2, 2010 at 10:04 am

  4. holy shit–how ya doin’ FM? Haven’t seen ya around ‘the house’; I took a break, popped back in for a minute, and damn if you weren’t gone. Got filled in on the goings on so I quit it myself. Hell of a deal.

    Hope all is well up CC way.




    August 26, 2010 at 9:39 pm

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