I crane my neck looking for the slightest hint of Southern kitsch: Mardi Gras beads in the rafters, a faux tin roof, a black-and-white portrait of Louis Armstrong or voodoo queen Marie Laveau, or even a good ‘ol steer head. With a knitted brow, I settle for a Japanese brew. It becomes even clearer when I order a beer and find no Southern brands (Dixie, Abita, Southern Star) that this is not Disneyland and the place has no intention of being an immersive experience. That’s the Big Easy in, well, a crawfish shell.Įntering Hot N’ Juicy Crawfish I hear trance music playing - or maybe it’s some other electronic sub-genre - but it certainly isn’t zydeco, or jazz or country. But the smell is a signal that the cuisine that waits inside those joints is meant to indulge you and free you of your worldly concerns. But could it be the same in West Hollywood? Could I have the same experience in a place that isn’t ramshackle and boiling under the Acadian sun, the air thick with humidity and the faint tinge of ubiquitous sick perfuming the gutters like some jazzy grace note? Okay, that doesn’t SOUND appetizing. I reflect on the town I miss so much, in particular the folksy, peel-and-eat seafood joints leaning over hot and briny streets: Deanie’s Seafood on Iberville in the French Quarter, or the blown-down Jaeger’s on Lake Pontchartrain. Cajun food from Nevada?Īs a fan of New Orleans and its cuisine my own eyes begin to brighten with hope. ![]() “No really,” I insist, “that’s what it’s called: Hot N’ Juicy Crawfish. More glassy stares, but this time tinged with mistrust. “So what’s this new place called?” they ask. And have we forgotten the most authentic of all? The ill-fated Cajun Bistro on the Sunset Strip? Um … yes. ![]() Even L.A.’s high-end, celebrity-backed Dixieland ventures (Reign, Georgia, Memphis) all were shuttered far too soon. Take, for example, the short-lived barbecue bubble-up of a few years back (Zeke’s, The Pig, Baby Blues), where only the latter has been left standing. Though the death of Zeke’s was rumored to be more of a result of embezzlement than that of finicky palates, it is still a potential warning sign, a memorial cross on the side of a treacherous, culinary road: WeHo and environs doesn’t take too kindly to Southern food. I’m reflecting on Zeke’s all of a sudden. “Where that Italian chain restaurant was,” I continue, but I’m distracted now.
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