ROUSES.COM
25
po-boys
I
have not written anything for
publication in over a year, but the offer
from Rouses was, as the cliché aptly
notes, one I simply could not refuse.
The assignment: Write a story about
the essence of the po-boy. Their word —
essence — not mine, and cheeky as it may
be, it comprised the sum total of editorial
guidance I was offered.
My interest was piqued. I enjoy a
philosophical conundrum as much as the
next guy, after all. So I mulled it over. I
pondered. I ruminated. I finally settled
on what I believed to be an appropriate
opening line of scientific inquiry into this
matter, and it was this:
What the hell kind of story is that?
The essence of a po-boy? As in, it’s soul?
It’s chakra?
Was I to identify where in the cosmic space/
time continuum New Orleans’ most iconic
and durable food group is located?
Was I to initiate a metaphysical
deconstruction of a Roast Beef & Swiss
with brown gravy?
Was I to search for the deeper meaning of
the po-boy, its higher purpose - the soul of
the machine, as it were? Its raison d’être?
Got me there, pal. Po-boys can be
complex physical compositions sometimes,
with myriad conceivable mathematical
permutations of mass, texture, taste
and — since we’re into some deep
anthropomorphism here — personality.
It strikes me as typical homo sapien hubris to
suggest that all po-boys would be composed
of the same “essence” in the first place.
Look at it this way: Me and, say, Justin
Bieber, are both people. Same species.
Same race and gender even. Yet I would
take strong issue with any suggestion that
he and I possess the same “essence.”
Are we to discount or
completely disregard then, the
self-identity of, say, an oyster
loaf, in comparison to a turkey
and provolone with a touch of
Creole mustard?
Have we, as a species, shackled
ourselves so resolutely to blind
faith in scientific inquiry and
empirical data-gathering that
we have lost all sense of deference to nature’s
insistently diverse and ever-evolving palette
of that certain je ne sais croissant?
I can no more tell you the meaning of the
po-boy than I can tell you the meaning of
life. Another valid line of inquiry might be:
Why inquire at all?
Is the traditionally reliable and sturdy po-boy
suddenly in the grips of an existential crisis?
(I’ve seen similar conditions affect mirlitons
and satsumas in recent decades; once a
food selection around here gets its own
eponymous festival, it’s never quite the
same. But I stray.)
To write a story about the essence of the
po-boy, I decided to begin with the cautious
notion and benign acceptance that some
things in this world are never meant to be
known; some things are, in fact, unknowable.
• • •
The first issue that needs to be addressed
in the search for the po-boy’s basic genome
code is the tricky matter of spelling and
pronunciation; a lexiconic minefield known
to sabotage otherwise perfectly docile
gatherings of otherwise perfectly reasonable
men around south Louisiana.
I’m spelling it po-boy because that’s the way
Rouses spells it. Personally, I have no horse
in this race.
You can spell it any way you like after you
finish reading this. And you can speak it
any way you like, as well, though I’ll go
on record with my preference for a slight
vocal punch on the “PO” syllable, similar
to the way many professional female tennis
players today release audible exhalations
at the moment of service due to forceful
compression of the diaphragm.
I’ll pause here a moment so you can sound
this out yourself (place your palm flat
against your lower abdomen) wherever you
may be reading this story (exert sudden
pressure) although I pray to God it’s not in
a public restroom (and exhale).
Got it?
I leave to the new generation of foodies
and aesthetes the unfortunately fashionable
enunciation of the first syllable as “POOR,”
with lips pursed in a self-satisfying
gesticulation meant to indicate a firmer
purchase on indigenous cultural authenticity
than common rubes like you and me.
Unless of course, you’re one of them, and
you say it POOR-boy too, all loud and
proud, and if you are, let me confess: That
really bugs me. It shouldn’t, I know.
Of no consequence, either way. In my
lengthy and arduous research into this
subject, I conclude that grammar and
spelling fail to qualify as any of the elusive
metaphysical ephemera that constitute
the essence of a po-boy.
To find that, we must peel away like the
porcelain layers of a Vidalia onion all the
things that robust and delectable po-
boys are not, beginning with their joyless
and pedestrian American cousins, such
unremarkable regional offerings as subs,
grinders, hoagies, heroes, and cheesesteaks,
pretenders all, lesser species of the food
chain, mere
..sandwiches, unworthy of lofty
existential parsing and examination.
Until the final crumbs and morsels of
Leidenheimers, Gendusa’s and Rouses
French breads have been consumed from
God’s great earth, no hoagie will ever
qualify as sublime.
And a po-boy, at its essence, is nothing if
not sublime.
And let us note other things that a po-boy
is not.
If the bread used in its preparation is called
a baguette, it’s not a po-boy.
If it has goat cheese, beets or
kale in it, it’s not a po-boy.
The Vietnamese put delicate
little carrot sprigs on theirs.
That’s adorable. But it’s not a
po-boy. It’s bahn mi.
If you got it to go and it’s not
wrapped in butcher paper, it’s
not a po-boy.
If the restaurant serving it has a
“The hoagie has no such pedigree. The sub has
no such valorous beginnings. Though a million
barfights have occurred over cheesesteaks in
Philadelphia, they were not for noble causes
but likely because the Eagles blew another
game to the Cowboys.”
