The Other Side of Canal

Street names in New Orleans can be strange and that’s why Carondelet Street on one side of Canal turns into Bourbon Street on the exact opposite side. Same street geometrically. Entirely different societally. Everyone knows about Bourbon Street. The stories from this entirely-fun-but-wretched-smelling streetway can be told a different time. This story is about the corner of Canal and Carondelet.

The Walgreens immediately on this street corner is in a precarious position. It’s not located directly on Bourbon Street but it is catty-corner. This means that during the later of the 24 opening hours each day this establishment is most often frequented by people drunk on holy hand grenades dispensed into plastic apparatuses that are legally carried most anywhere in the city. Hazed crowds and a general laissez faire attitude going around this part of the city at 3am mean the lone security guard stationed at the entrance always has an interesting night ahead of him. But do not fear for the lone security guard. Because this guy is PREPARED. Dressed like he’s been dropped off on a mission in Halo; I would count on this man to win against higher numbers on a difficult setting. The general air of ‘don’t fuck with me’ that he naturally exudes is enough to stop full pandemonium from erupting.

I am not here for the Walgreens. Though I did go there a few nights earlier for a lighter. I am walking back to my hotel from Bourbon St. The daiquiri in hand a necessary feature to fight against the paralyzing heat even more than it is a desire to get drunk. But when the music has taken you and the cleanest solution to the environmental warfare of heat is to constantly have a frozen alcoholic beverage to hand then the smell coming off that DIY grill setup on the sidewalk outside Walgreens on Carondelet is tempting enough to make me stop in the dead of the night when nothing around me appears dead at all.

“What are you making?” I think it’s a reasonable question keeping in mind the lack of any signage or lighting. The only illumination coming from street lights, and a smidge from the window of Walgreens shining through the glazing on the corner.

“I got chicken… fish” the proprietor tells me. There is a long time between these last two words. The one man running this entire setup - consisting of a grill, a deep fryer, and several tables set up with candies and a large variety of sauces - appears to be even higher than I am. “How is the chicken cooked? How do you do the fish?” I’m curious for more information because no visual cues are forthcoming. I can see something bubbling in the deep fryer but no other outward display of food. No answer is obviously proffered, the proprietor having drifted away, while remaining in place.

I’m only more intrigued, and I need a new tactic. “What’s the easiest thing for you to make me?” I ask as a leading question. This one gets a definitive response. “Burger!” The word takes a long time to say despite not having many letters. I am happy. Because I like burgers. And surprised. Because burgers weren’t on the original verbal menu I was presented. But I’m going with it. “I’ll have a burger please!”

Thus ensues the culinary movement equivalent of horns on an Outkast track. This man moves lazy. But impressively everything gets done. I’m amazed at how he works in the dark. The bubbling basket of the deep fryer is pulled to reveal chicken wings. Extremely well done. Which is basically how I like them. These wings are put straight into a styrofoam takeout container lined with aluminum foil. Bare, no sauce. No seasoning that I can discern but this may very well have been done in the battering phase. However these don’t look particularly battered. They look like bare wings fried long. They look crispy and delicious. I can see this is where the sauce table comes into its own as the recipient of the chicken wings, a young lady clearly flying high, takes various sauces to create a mosaic on the fried chicken container she clutches. Another thing that I wouldn’t have picked, that looks delicious.

“You a tall dude” the owner of the wings exclaims towards me. She is correct. And I realize now that I’ve been staring so it’s only fair she would be aware of my intentions towards her wings. I consider asking for one.

“I am, thank you” I reply sheepishly. I’m not quite as wasted as her but I’m not far off. Which is why her next retort shocks me. “I bet you got a big dick.” It doesn’t take me long to do the mental math of having a serious conversation or a fun one. “Yes I do, it’s a blessing.” “Well you take your big dick and go on and have a good night OK hon.” I feel like I’ve been exalted by the lady of the wings. She definitely wasn’t hitting on me. She just wanted to say something nice. I never thought my experience at the street side grill would involve such an ego boost but here we are. She walks her wings away into the black of the night.

I take in the other tables. One is covered in candies and other assorted treats. “Those is weed” my multi-tasking friend on the fryer tells me as he simultaneously adds cheese on top of the burger patty that is frying away for me. Edibles are ubiquitous in New Orleans. Maybe because they are hard to detect. Maybe because they are fake. I don’t know, but I don’t need any. I’ve been buying single joints all weekend from a guy who is sporadically out in the farther reaches of Bourbon St and pulls a mobile cart proudly displaying a Chucky Child’s Play doll. I was always pleased to see when Chucky was there as I walked up the street. But I am OK for weed right now.

Suddenly my burger is ready. In an almost fantastical fashion as despite being the only customer presently I could not discern any cooking method or technique. Maybe this man is a cooking ninja. Maybe I have had too many Cajun Storm’s. The burger comes wrapped in a foil package that somehow looks used and doesn’t quite fit the whole burger. It’s now my time at the sauce table. I have to keep it simple. As close to ketchup and mustard as I can rally. I apply sauce to the otherwise bare burger. I wrap it back up. Still ill fitting in its aluminum blanket. I walk the few minutess back to my hotel to enjoy it in comfort. “I’m here every night!” the proprietor is sure to let me know.

I’m hungry in all the ways when I dig into this burger. The bun is burnt black. The patty cooked until it was dead. The cheese was great. All in all, a wonderful experience. I went back to see him the next night. He wasn’t there.