Honest disclaimer: Politics ahead. I had planned on beginning this post by declaring that we - liberal, blue-state American “Northerners” - are simultaneously drawn to, and mystified by, the shadowy South.

I wanted to somehow paint a picture of the Louisiana bayou as complex as the one in my head – plantations, sweeping willow trees, Spanish missionary forts, voodoo shrines – all while stressing that, frankly, it scares me a little. The South is as romantic as its history is brutal, I wanted to write. We’re repelled. We’re fascinated!

But, like any country, the United States is more complicated than you can lay down in one blog post. And damned if I know what other Northerners are thinking.

Instead, I’ll speak for myself, a New Yorker of fairly recent immigrant stock, with few if any personal connections to the South. Logic tells me this personal distance will lend a degree of objectivity that many other Northerners – whose own great-great grandparents may well have been wealthy slaveholders, poor tenant farmers or enslaved Africans – might lack.

But the truth is: I’m not objective, either.

Here in America, where African Americans continue to be terrorized by police, where we have to take to the streets in 2018 to shout that Black Lives Matter and where millions of white folks feel left behind in a changing nation, no one is objective. Everyone is on a side.

I'm sorry to begin a piece about a city as alive as New Orleans on such a somber note. But this is the baggage many politically progressive northern tourists - like me - bring when we cross over the Mason Dixon.

While my ancestors weren’t in America to witness the buying and selling of human beings, we all have our opinions. We study history. We belong to political parties and we worry about what the terrifying “Other” – whether that's an immigrant, or an equally alien, red-cap-wearing fellow American – is doing to our country.

We can’t help that – nor, probably, should we. Caring is what keeps things real.

But it would certainly be a disservice to write about New Orleans’ vibrant culture – and a fun summer trip I genuinely loved! – without first disclosing these complicated feelings.

*Audubon Park, straight out of my imagination*

Take the beautiful bed and breakfast where I stayed, situated on Esplanade Avenue among other grand, Greek Revival antebellum mansions, smack in between the historic French Quarter and the Tremé neighborhood.

The hotel structure itself was built in 1861, just before the Civil War broke out, and its innkeeper – a perfectly lovely, potbellied, middle-aged white local – is fond of telling historical anecdotes, like how badly New Orleans residents longed for good coffee during the war, after Union naval blockades cut off the city’s port and it became unavailable.

(This is how I learn about chicory coffee, now famous in NOLA, which is made from ground chicory plant roots and came to serve as an almost-but-not-quite-as-good coffee substitute until the end of the war. It’s a little weird, but not all together unpleasant.)

As a food history nerd, I find this story fascinating. I scribble it down immediately. But from my northern perspective, all this pride in a confederate relic feels awkward. It seems utterly strange to delight in the quirky historical sacrifices made by white Southerners, all while they rooted for the literal bifurcation of the United States and the continued enslavement of millions of people.

I nod along with the innkeeper. Once again, I try to clear my head, to be objective. But it won’t seem to stick.

We walk everywhere during our stay in New Orleans, even in the sticky 90+ degree heat. We wear hats and sweat through our shirts and get sunburned, then drenched in the rain, and we stop to cool ourselves in local watering holes four, five, six times a day. (This also means drinking booze four, five, six times a day.)

I can scarcely believe NOLA residents survive in this heat, but I suppose one can get used to anything. The pace here is very, very slow.

From the hotel, it’s a short walk to the touristy French Quarter, a mandatory first destination for any new arrival. There I consume a truly disgusting, purplish alcoholic slushy – known as a "Voodoo Daquiri" – at America’s oldest functioning bar, Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop. (This place is as dark and grimy as you’d expect a bar built in 1722 to be, and it’s worth a stop to experience it. Just do yourself a favor and order a beer.)

We also pass under elevated highways, including one that divides Esplanade Ridge from the Tremé neighborhood, and under which the city's homeless folk have clustered together hundreds of tents. There is violence here, and drugs, and deep sadness. These are not safe places.

I read articles quoting the city government to the effect that, since Hurricane Katrina exposed New Orleans’ deep-rooted racial and economic inequality in national headlines, the city has “effectively ended homelessness” – or at least reduced it by 90 % – but I remain unconvinced. We explore the Tremé, finding it a vibrant place with some truly killer food, but at night we opt to cross under the overpasses in a taxi.

(An interesting side note: Gentrification, rapidly on the rise since Katrina, is a big deal question in NOLA. I learn that there is a massive pushback from Tremé residents against what they see as an Airbnb infestation, and we explore the largely dilapidated – but “oh-so-cool”, one local tells me – Freret Street area, with its smattering of hipster coffee houses.)

Near the French Quarter we also encounter this sign, protesting the Brooklynization of the neighborhood, which doubles me over laughing:

I’ve done my homework, and come prepared with a mile-long list of places to eat. The innkeeper has strong opinions about some of these, declaring them either “overhyped” or “not authentic," presumably meaning that some eager young chef has taken unseemly liberties with traditional New Orleans fare.

I’m most intrigued by some of the city’s more unique combinations, like West African Gullah-style rice dishes melded with Caribbean spices, or the newly exploding Viet Cajun (yes, you read that right!) restaurant scene.

But I came to learn, after all, and there's plenty more to eat than just that.

Two classic NOLA cocktails - the Sauzerac and the French 75 - at the schmancy Roosevelt Hotel — *Two classic NOLA cocktails - the* Sauzerac and the French 75 - at the schmancy Roosevelt Hotel

Real-deal oyster po'boy at Liuzza's By the Track, a local favorite in Bayou Saint John — *Real-deal oyster po'boy at* Liuzza's By the Track, *a local favorite in Bayou Saint John*

Muffaletta sandwich at Central Grocery — *Muffaletta sandwich at* Central Grocery

In five gut-busting days, we sample as many flavors as possible, from easygoing local favorites like fried oyster po’boys and “BBQ shrimp” (which in fact has nothing to do with a barbecue pit nor a grill, and instead swims in about a pound of melted butter) to chef Donald Link’s upscale Southern food spot Herbsaint, recently voted one of the world’s 50 best restaurants.

In between, I try lowcountry classics like grilled Gulf oysters and alligator; oily, Sicilian-descended Muffaletta sandwiches at Central Grocery; famous French-style donuts known as beignets, drowning in powdered sugar; and a dizzying array of boudin sausages and other pork delicacies at Toup’s Meatery. (Fellow Top Chef fans: that Toups!)

Beignets and iced coffee at the famous Café du Monde — Beignets *and iced coffee at the famous* Café du Monde

*Bayou food out in Jefferson Parish (i.e., the swamp)*

A (slightly) modern twist on Creole classics at Herbsaint — *A (slightly) modern twist on Creole classics at* Herbsaint

At the wonderful (if touristy) New Orleans School of Cooking, we sit through an excellent Gumbo and Jambalaya demonstration with Chef Pat, whose voice and mannerisms render her a rather eerie doppelgänger of Paula Deen.

My antennae perk up as she begins to explain the complicated, highly fraught history of those Creole classics, which are rooted in layer upon layer of French, Spanish, Caribbean and even German and Irish immigration, all underpinned by the cooking of African slaves.

(Looking around at her very diverse, totally rapt audience, I wonder: How the hell will she pull off this story without offending anyone?)

But Chef Pat turns out to be a star. She’s engaging, charismatic, funny – and every bit as diplomatic as a senior UN spokeswoman. She weaves a story of centuries of invasion, war, international treaties and rogue land-grabs with zero perceptible judgement, emphasizing the unique impact each of New Orleans’ diverse cultures have had on its cuisine.

(She also does this all while simultaneously whipping up samples for us to taste. Check out my own version, and Chef Pat's recipe, below.)

Along with the history, we learn the difference between lowcountry fare, Creole food – which is marked by Caribbean and Spanish influences – and dishes originating in the Cajun community. All three mix seamlessly in most New Orleans kitchens.

(I'm especially interested to learn that Cajuns, originally fur trappers known as Acadians and directly related to their French Canadian brothers, later intermarried with immigrants in Louisiana’s "German Coast" to produce a unique bayou culture that really, really loves its sausages.)

We learn what’s in Creole seasoning – basically, everything – and about a traditional thickening ingredient known as filé powder, made from sassafras, which you add to your Gumbo to taste, but at your own risk. (A touch too much turns food slimy.) She tells us about the Cajun “holy trinity” of onion, celery and green bell pepper, which reminds me of my grandmother’s Puerto Rican sofrito base and of the classic French mirpoix.

After class, I approach Chef Pat to ask where I can find some good andouille sausage up north, one that’s been hand-chopped in the traditional method rather than machine ground, to which she wryly advises me: “Just order it online from Louisiana, for heaven’s sake!”

*Just one of NOLA's many, many creepy old cemeteries*

*This exhibit was just fantastic. Catch it, if you can.*

L. Kasimu Harris, part of "War on the Benighted" at NOMA, which "visualizes a revolution where African American students take control of their schools." Poor quality public ed and racial divisions still plague much of New Orleans. — *L. Kasimu Harris, part of* "War on the Benighted" at NOMA, *which "visualizes a revolution where African American students take control of their schools." Poor quality public ed and racial divisions still plague much of New Orleans.*

*View from the "air boat" in Jean Lafitte swamp, Jefferson Parish*

Glorious Bacchanal ! Live music, small bites, torches and serve-yourself-wine. (Also, mosquitoes.) — *Glorious* Bacchanal ! *Live music, small bites, torches and serve-yourself-wine. (Also, mosquitoes.)*

We have a few other standout adventures, like an alligator swamp tour on one of those little fan-propelled boats, an evening at the laid-back wine joint Bacchanal (which I just adore), and some truly provocative contemporary exhibits at NOMA, the New Orleans Museum of Art. (If you go, don’t skip the magical sculpture garden.)

To me, as usual, it’s really the food that tells the story best. In New Orleans, it’s one of cultures meeting and melding, in the steamy bayou heat, to form new cultures all their own. It’s a story of forced labor and violence and the sheer abundance of this fertile land and climate.

And – while I admittedly came to New Orleans with plenty of preconceptions and biases – I also manage to see past them in some ways, finding in the city great strength and a deeply well-deserved sense of pride.

My political leanings probably won’t change just because I’ve driven a rented car around Louisiana's rural bayou country. I won’t forgive folks the confederate flags they hang out their windows there, nor the reprehensible history that flag represents.

But the more I travel, the more I see that you can hold your own beliefs firmly in one hand, and an honest, open curiosity in the other.

So yes, the American South is mysterious. It’s stubborn, sometimes prideful in its own singularity. But above all, it’s a riddle turning inward on itself, coiling ever more tightly through new waves of immigration, challenges and triumphs, until all the lines seem to blur together.

Truly, there are as many different things to be proud of in the South as there are different Southerners to be proud of them.

* *** *

My First Gumbo

INGREDIENTS

1/2 lb lard or 1/2 cup vegetable oil

½ cup all-purpose flour

1 lb chicken, deboned and cut into chunks (dark meat preferred)

1 lb Andouille sausage, sliced about ¼ inch thick

2 cups onions, chopped

1 cup celery, chopped

1 cup green bell pepper, chopped

1 tbs garlic, minced

6 cups stock (chicken or veg)

½ cup scallions, chopped

Creole or Cajun seasoning (about 3 tbs, or to taste)

Kosher salt

Small pinch NOLA-style filé (thickening) powder, to add at the table if desired

*The "Trinity" - onions, peppers, celery*

*Use good quality farm-raised pork fat. Roux cannot be made with fat or oil containing any particles or they will burn.*

DIRECTIONS

1. In a large soup pot, season and brown chicken in lard or vegetable oil. Add sliced Andouille sausage and continue to brown.

2. In a cast iron skillet, make a roux (equal parts fat and flour) by heating ¼ cup lard or vegetable oil and slowly adding ¼ cup flour. STIR CONTINOUSLY over medium heat. The roux will darken over 10-12 minutes but can burn easily. Stir until the roux is the color of a copper coin.

3. Add onions, celery, pepper and garlic into the roux. Stir well to combine and cook until the vegetables are tender, about 10 minutes. Do not allow mixture to burn.

4. Add the roux/vegetable mixture to the soup pot with the chicken and sausage, stir to combine. Gradually add ladles full of broth, stirring, and bring to a boil.

5. Reduce heat and simmer for at least an hour or until gumbo is somewhat thickened/reduced. 10 minutes prior to serving, skim fat from the top of the gumbo by slowly lowering a serving spoon into it. Season with spice mix and scallions and adjust salt to taste if needed.

6. Serve with fluffy white Caroline rice and/or baguette. Diners can adjust the gumbo’s consistency with file powder if desired, but beware of using more than a sprinkle! It can make your gumbo slimy.