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MY
ROUSES
EVERYDAY
JANUARY | FEBRUARY 2015
the
Southern Food & Beverage
issue
T
here’s a particular moment on
every Monday evening that I look
forward to all week. That single
split second when, with a smooth elbow-to-
wrist motion, my chef ’s knife slices the root
end off a yellow onion and hits the cutting
board with a satisfying THUNK.
It lasts just a fraction of a second, but that
cut and that dull sound of impact sets an
amazing process in motion. The cut is the
first action in a deeply-ingrained Monday
night routine that starts with a trip to Rouses
and ends up with a low-key gathering
fueled by red wine, great conversation and
intentionally low expectations. From that
cut on, it’s all muscle memory.
Around my house, the weekly event is
called Monday Night Red Beans, and over
the past thirteen years, it’s been an excuse
for friends and family to gather around my
grandmother’s long wood-grained Formica
table and blow off steam on a night not
usually known for festive activities.
I spend the first few minutes slicing, dicing
and rendering the fat from smoked sausage
and andouille before moving on to sautéing
vegetables (yellow onion, green pepper,
a little too much garlic) in the wee bit of
flavorful fat left in my heavy-bottomed
pressure cooker. Each familiar aromatic
layer floats from my tiny kitchen to the
rest of the house (which will need a quick
straightening before guests arrive) as I fill
the rice cooker scoop by scoop and press
GO on the trusty appliance.
By the time I fill the cooker with soaked
Camellias, water and a few herbs, I’ve had
a complete transformation. No matter
what the trials of Monday might have
been — high-pressure deadlines, flat tires,
surprise bills or dust-ups with coworkers
— everything melts away in the face of a
Monday-night red beans get-together.
Guests will show up in a few minutes. I best
get to straightening up.
The Tradition
As most New Orleanians know, the
customary “red beans on Monday” harkens
back to the days when the “going to the
laundromat” meant “schlepping everything
to the river for washing.” First slaves,
then domestic workers needed a low-
maintenance dish that could sit on a banked
fire and slow cook during the long round-
trip to the river. A pot of beans, often
flavored with a hambone from Sunday
dinner, fit the bill nicely, and soon became
part of the city’s culinary rhythms.
Over time, the simple dish became a
practical “commerce of the day” in local
restaurants and modern-day cafeterias. Like
“fish on Friday,” Monday red beans became
part of the New Orleans foodways.
When I arrived in the city in 2001, I
embraced the tradition for its practicality,
historic appeal and flavor. Having recently
adopted my grandmother’s eight-foot
kitchen table, I decided to make Monday
night beans my own thing. A chance to
invite friends to the house and feed them
on the night that —let’s face it— nobody
really wants to do much of anything, much
less forage for food.
Monday Means
Red Beans
by
Pableaux Johnson +
photo by
Romney Caruso