As the temperature rises in New Orleans, the seasons shift and lo-
cals are signaled of impending spring. Warm breezes tickle the sweaty lower backs of women bending over coolers to pick through cans of PBR and Heineken. Young, uniformed kids race to the bus stop after school to crowd buses headed toward their favorite sno ball shack that’s finally opened for the season. And the thick, humid air that hangs over our heads is saturated with the scent of Zatarain’s Crab Boil. Balmy evenings welcome entire neighborhoods onto the streets to chug malt liquor from sweating 40 bottles, lounge lazily on porches of their neighbor’s shotguns, and trade work clothes for unbuttoned booty shorts and stained tank tops. People move through the city in packs, sharing sweatsoaked handkerchiefs, scratching each other’s bug bites that are out of reach, and recognizing Lent on “meat-free” Friday nights, crowding around folding tables covered in empty crawfish shells. Maybe it’s the fact that one day a week their arteries are given a break from fried chicken for breakfast, smothered chops for lunch, and BBQ ribs for dinner, but on Friday nights people are lighter on their feet. The promises of late night conversations with friends and sweet tail meat evoke smiles at strangers on the streetcar after 6:00 p.m. Come spring, boils dominate Friday night plans and draw people off their couches, out from under their ceiling fans, and onto back decks full of people and pots exploding with plumes of white steam. Boils are hosted from “afternoon - till” on Fridays, leaving room for everyone to be satisfied—those who are in search of an early afternoon snack as well as those who can’t make it until the third batch is rolling at your friend’s place around 9:00 p.m. When the crawfish are “running,” it’s hard to miss packed dive bars selling them for $4.99/lb, or the tubs in front of a grocery store that stocks them boiled-for-sale. Driving through the city, you’re berated by sandwich boards announcing fresh boiled crawfish, stuffed artichokes, crabs for $3 a piece. The Channel is littered with Big Fisherman posters stapled to light posts announcing their fresh catch, and pop-up kitchens (pots, gas burners and coolers) are assembled in front of Igor’s on St. Charles, Lucy’s on Tchoup. All day the smells of heated seasoning and seafood are impossible to Volume 2, Issue 1
Spring 2014
65