“You do that, and every local in the city gone come after you.”
A few minutes later, the same waitress came back. Another woman followed behind her, both of them balancing trays that looked like Thanksgiving had come early. The smell hit me first. It was savory, buttery, spicy, and smoky all at once.
“Lord have mercy,” I whispered. “Did y’all cook for the whole block?”
The waitress just laughed. “Baby, we don’t do light portions around here.” She started setting plate after plate on the table until there was barely room for the napkins. When they finished, she wiped her hands on her apron and said, “Alright, Maison, I’ll let you do the honors. Tell your friend what she’s about to experience.”
Maison grinned and leaned back like a man proud of his choices. “You see this right here?” he said, pointing to the plate in front of me. “That’s catfish and grits. You don’t come down here and eat brunch without getting catfish and grits. Shrimp and grits are good too, but ain’t nothing like that crispy, seasoned catfish. It’s got soul.”
He wasn’t lying. The catfish looked like it had been fried by somebody who prayed over the grease first—golden brown, edges curled up just right, sitting on a bed of creamy grits. I could smell the seasoning before I even leaned closer. It smelled like butter and garlic.
Then he pointed to another plate with thin slices of meat glistening under the light. “That right there is duck bacon.”
I blinked. “Duck bacon?”
He grinned, clearly amused by my expression. “Yeah. Don’t knock it till you try it.”
I almost saidwhat the fuck,but the shit looked too good for me to even question.
Next was a stack of pancakes with fluffy, golden, edges, crisped up like they were cooked by somebody’s great-grandma who didn’t measure a damn thing. They were topped with powdered sugar, syrup, and—another piece of catfish.
I pointed. “Why is there catfish on the pancakes?”
He laughed. “Don’t question it. Just taste it.”
“Catfish and pancakes?” I said, still staring. “Y’all are unhinged.”
“Unhinged and blessed,” he said, grinning.
Then he nodded toward the final dish. It was a golden omelet, thick and folded perfectly, with a little bit of sauce leaking from the inside.
“This right here,” he said, tapping the plate lightly, “is my go-to. My favorite. An omelet stuffed with crawfish étouffée.”
I froze. “Stuffed with what?”
“Crawfish étouffée,” he repeated, proud. “You came to Louisiana. We don’t play with food.”
I looked at the table again, completely mesmerized. Everything shimmered under a thin layer of steam, smelling like flavor, history, and regret for every bland meal I’d ever eaten in my life.
It all looked so good I almost teared up. “This feels spiritual.”
He laughed. “It is.”
“It also sounds like I’m gonna leave fifteen pounds heavier,” I said, picking up my fork.
He leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “Baby, that’s how you know it’s good.”
I didn’t give a damn. I was ready to eat.
I picked up my fork, took a deep breath, and went in.
First bite: catfish and grits. Listen. I don’t know what kind of seasoning séance they performed in that kitchen, but the flavor hit me like a gospel note. The fish was crispy on the outside, tender on the inside, and those grits had just the right hint of spice. My eyes closed on instinct. My soul left my body and started singing background for Anita Baker.
I didn’t even realize I’d made a noise until Maison started laughing. “You alright over there?”
I shook my head slowly, fork still in midair. “No. Because why would y’all do this to people?”
He grinned. “That good, huh?”
