Bad Boudin and Other Horrors

 

Readers,

I’m a transplanted Cajun-Country-bordering-Texan, living in the middle of the damn Mojave desert. I am reminded of this simply by looking out my bedroom window, the view from which features a stunning mountain vista in the distance (with the Stratosphere much closer), or stepping foot outside for three seconds (the day’s high will be a dry 101-ish). It’s hotter than hades here, and that’s saying something when you consider the area from which I hail.

“But it’s a dry heat” you say.

“Go to hell” I say in return, “Or just come here instead.”

There are lots of things to love about Las Vegas, but, as Dorothy kindly reminds us every year, there’s no place like home. And for me, there’s no food like Cajun food (throw Creole and Soul foods in there too, as it’s all been served to me on the same plate, most of my life) to make me feel like I’m at home.

Cajun/Creole/Soul food wasn’t something we ate in restaurants, it’s what we ate at home. Turnip greens and cornbread? Yes, please. Boiled crawfish with a side of potatoes and corn? Heck yeah! Boudin and cracklin (google it)? Oh, god save the queen..

So imagine my happiness when a little internet sleuthing paid off a few days ago – I’d done a general internet search for “boudin las vegas” and was absolutely tickled when a yelp-reviewed meat market on the other side of town showed up, with a comment reading, “Every kind of Cajun food you can imagine, even boudin!”, or something close, from a lady who seemed pretty darned happy. So, with images of my long-lost gastronomic loves dancing merrily in my head, I loaded up and made the excruciatingly long haul across town.

*If you’re wondering, it’s excruciating because the traffic lights here are what I believe to be the longest, worst-timed mechanisms in the free world. Coupled with the statistical fact that 6 of 10 drivers in Las Vegas are impaired at Any Given Time, and you have a recipe for extremely defensive driving and long, slow, harrowing trips just about anywhere.

 

 

Having finally arrived in one piece, I entered a cute little old school style meat market – heavy on meat, light on everything else. While perusing the fresh meats case, I noticed that boudin was conspicuously absent…so I strolled over to the freezer case.

Aha! Boudin. Mild and hot. Three links per package.

I grabbed three, headed for the counter, and hauled ass home – where I almost literally stared down this package of boudin until it thawed. Painful hours, my friends, painful hours.

Fantasies of smoked boudin, boudin balls, boudin dip, and other boudin-based concoctions made me a bit lightheaded, and the anticipated scent of boudin washed through my nostrils like the ghosts of food past and future. (Waxing poetic about food is not new, I’m just bad at it.)

Since the post’s titled Bad Boudin, you’ve naturally figured out by now that the boudin was, indeed, bad. More than bad. Mealy and watery and soupy and, just….gross.

 

 

My disappointment cannot be contained; my mortification shall not abate. Boudin made in Lake Charles, Louisiana, should not taste (or look or smell) like that.

I guess if I really, really want to revisit the food of my youth, I’m going to have to once again revisit the geography of it – and next time, I’ll bring a cooler full of dry ice.

–  Dana

 

PS. Please don’t drink and drive. Or text and drive. Or stare at your GPS and drive…you get the idea. Just drive, dammit.