I nodded, already ready.
He pointed to the next. “This right here is the praline-stuffed beignet. It’s sweet, creamy, smooth, and rich.”
“Then we got the traditional beignet,” he said, tapping the golden square pillow dusted in powdered sugar like it was sacred. “I know you’ve had one before, but trust me, you haven’t had one that tastes like this. These ain’t them café ones. This one got soul.”
I picked up the crab one first, dipped it in the sauce, and took a bite.
Listen.
If flavor had a heartbeat, it was thumping in that beignet.
The outside was golden and crisp, but the inside was a soft, flaky dream. The crab was seasoned like somebody’s grandma did a drive-by blessing in the kitchen.
Then I tried the praline one and damn near sat back in silence. The filling was smooth and creamy like melted brown sugar hugs. It had me feeling like I was somebody’s rich auntie ona yacht in Monaco. I looked at him and said, “This is giving… exclusive access. Like everybody can’t afford this taste.”
He laughed, eyes dancing. “You see what I’m saying? That’s the Loretta’s touch.”
I went for the traditional last, expecting it to be basic, but the powdered sugar was cloud-soft and the dough practically melted. “See,” I said between bites, “this right here is what love tastes like. This got ‘marry me’ energy.”
“Just wait until I bring you to try the praline stuffed king cake next time,” he said, grinning.
“Next time?” I teased.
“I told you,” he said, sipping his drink. “Twenty-four-hour girlfriend. I gotta do right.”
I leaned back, powdered sugar on my fingers, full and happy. “Sir…if this is what having a boyfriend from Louisiana is like…I might need to extend my contract.”
We pulled up toNice Guys NOLA, the day party energy hitting me in the chest. Before we even stepped out of the car, I could already see people were out there living. Just straight vibes.
The line to get seated wrapped around the corner, but nobody cared. Everybody was too busy vibing. Music blasted from the inside with heavy bass, laughter, champagne clinks, and hookah smoke floating in the air.
We hadn’t even made it to the door yet and I was already dancing.
It was something about the city—something about New Orleans culture that made your hips move before your brain could even catch up. As soon as I heard that familiar bounce beat creep through the speakers and the DJ screamed, “Y’all ready for this one?!”, I already knew what time it was.
“That’s my JUVIEEEEEE!” The beat dropped and all hell broke loose.
Every woman standing on their section chairs turned into backup dancers. Everybody in line transformed into performers on a live music video set. Magnolia Shorty and Katey Red had taken over, and the whole restaurant turned into a bounce temple.
And me?
I did what needed to be done.
Bent over in line like I was born and raised Uptown. Shaking ass like I was auditioning for the NOLA Olympics. I backed it up right on Maison like I had something to prove.
Most men would’ve stumbled. But Maison didn’t flinch. He placed his drink on the hood of the car and handled it like a real one, like a down south man who knew his role when the music hit. He matched my rhythm and kept his hand steady on my waist like he was raised off bounce music and prayer.
“Lord have mercy,” I heard somebody behind us say, laughing and hyping me up. “She giving him that energy!”
I winked, still dancing, feeling free.
A staff member came to escort us in, and I still couldn’t stop dancing. The beat had me in a chokehold and Maison just smiled like a proud coach letting his star player have their moment. He didn’t rush me, pull me away, or look embarrassed. He just held my hand, guided me around the crowd like I was a parade float, and let me dance all the way to our table.
That’s what made him different. Some men want you to shrink in public. Want you to be reserved and lady-like. But not Maison.
He let me be big. He let me be loud, joyful, extra, and he matched my energy like it was second nature. And that’s why I sat my thick ass down at that table, still catching my breath and still smiling, thinking to myself:
This… this is what a good damn day feels like.
