Every once in a while you discover a hidden jewel forgotten by time, the place when real men eat. I have found a restaurant where home cooking is king in Baton Rouge. Louie’s Café opened in 1941 and not a single thing has changed since Truman was president. It was like walking into a time warp. A local business associate treated me to this special part of Louisiana. As we walked in the front of the building looked like a flea market with assorted abandon kitchen equipment discarded over the years stacked up under the awning next to hundred pound sacks of potatoes. The daily specials were painted on the windows in vibrant colors. We walked in through a worn aluminum screen door and stepped onto a black and white checked linoleum floor that had small chips missing.
A long white counter and red top chrome stools fenced in the grill. We were immediately greeted by the grease stained Cajun cook called Frenchie. “Mr. Jimmy, How come it been so long since ya visited me.” Frenchie had the appearance of a well worn and traveled soul. The tattoos which decorated his leathery and wrinkled arms revealed a life of military service and probably a number of incarnations. On his head sat a faded white chef skull cap which covered his salt and pepper hair. “Mr. Jimmy, ya kno ya come by cause I’m so damn beautiful.” Picking out a stool at the counter Jimmy smiled and responded “Frenchie, who the hell told you, you’re beautiful?”
“Mr. Jimmy, I don’st needs nobody to tell me, all I do is look at dis’ beautiful face every morn in da mirror.” Frenchie turned to the grill and kept talking to himself about “How da women love dis’ face”. I felt immediately comfortable sitting at the long white counter with all the condiments organized in small clusters. Half filled bottles of ketchup, mustard, real salt and pepper shakers, and a sugar dispenser not a pile of packets. Don’t look for blue or pink sugar substitutes in this place. Growing up on the east coast I spent many days of my youth hanging out at diners. It’s a culture that’s fast disappearing, replaced by fast food franchises where social interaction is impossible.
Scanning the tables behind me there was a group of four slightly overweight policemen with their heads bent as they shoveled grits from the thick white plates. Behind the officers were three tattooed and pierced college students in torn blue jeans discussing some art book with soft voices? Across the aisle sat a black soldier immaculate in his sturdy posture and brightly polished black boots. Along the counter next to me were three drug addicts who managed to scrape up enough money to buy a home cooked meal before the next bender. The drug addicts warily eyed the police as they probably knew each other from encounters on the dark side of midnight.
In the corner table sat an elderly couple that were neatly dressed in clothes from a farm supple store. It appeared that they have sat at the same table and ordered the same meal every day since the café opened some sixty five years ago. As we waited for service two rough necks from the oil industry strolled in and sat at the counter. They worn dirty yellow hard hats adorned with faded labels and scuffed emblems cataloging the many oil rigs they worked on around the world. Baton Rouge is a big blue collar oil refining town. Their work boots and coveralls were stained with crude oil to the point that they were waterproof.
Jimmy mentioned he had gotten Frenchie a job at this new expensive restaurant as a SU-chef, but it didn’t work out. Frenchie got in the habit of telling the head chef how he should be doing things. Looking at the grill I was struck on how worn and battered the equipment was. Like the old black cast iron skillet Grandma would never let any one wash but herself, there was a thick patina build up by constant daily use for so many years. All the pots and utensils had dents and pocks which gave it a hand hammered appearance. In the dents the patina would accumulate more readily giving the pots a mottled texture.
“Mr. Jimmy, I was up alls night planning dis blue plate special jus fors ya. Ya want to hears it.” The special was a Spanish omelet made with huge square chucks of spiced hash brown potatoes and homemade salsa. I ordered it with a side of pancakes and a mug of coffee. The food arrived on a big thick while oval platter with a smudge of grease where the omelet had just been slid off the grill. It was a meal your heart doctor rolls his eyes after you tell him about it.
The favor of the omelet was to die for. It was so good that I woke up the middle on the night despondent that I didn’t finish every bite and it was tossed out. I reached for the maple syrup for the pancakes and noticed it was extra dark brown. As I poured it on, I thought it must be it has been stored on the counter and has aged to this deeper color. Shoveling in a big bite of pancakes, something tasted very different? It’s certainly a different maple syrup. It took me a second before I realized this is not maple syrup this is old fashioned molasses. It was my first taste of the southern tradition of molasses and pancakes. I slowly savored the new taste combination.
As we got up to leave Frenchie turned from the grill and wiped him face with the red bandana around his neck. “Mr. Jimmy, how dem chillens doin?”
“Frenchie, if you don’t watch out I’ll bring all four of them down here to tear up this place.”
“Oh Mr. Jimmy, ya kno dem chillens love dem special waffles I make dem” Frenchie responded. “They love dem waffles almost as they love dis beautiful face.” As we walked out of the aluminum screen door I could still hear Frenchie talking to himself “All ya kno da women love dis’ face.” Needless to say I spent the next three days in Baton Rouge going back to the place where real men eat.
