For some, the food of the South has always been barbecue. For others pimento cheese, but in certain areas — and in a certain kind of weather — it is always gumbo.
Editors, agents and producers always seem a bit disappointed when they find out I’m not zooming from New Orleans. So am I, for that matter. My mother’s family came from France to the old city, and my godparents lived on or around St. Charles for the better part of a century. I’ve logged in the hours in New Orleans, but I actually live in Memphis — the land of Elvis, the blues and unbeatable barbecue. All great stuff, but that weird Bourbon creole vibe keeps bubbling up and, in the end, I’m a gumbo guy.
The traditional time for gumbo is a season only recognized in southeast Louisiana, a sort of gastronomic La Niña called “Gumbo Weather,” when it’s not exactly cold but at least it isn’t so damned hot. It starts sometime a few weeks before Thanksgiving, runs through the holidays, the Epiphany and winds up either around the Super Bowl or Mardi Gras, depending on the weather and how the Saints did that year.
Like a Saints fan’s relationship to their home team, gumbo is complicated. Its father was a West African stew, its mother a French bouillabaisse — which makes it unbuttoned and refined at the same time. The dish was named after … it depends who you ask. Team Okra claims the name comes from the Bantu word for the slimy veg – kingombo. Team Filé claims it’s the Choctaw word for dried sassafras leaves — kombo. I’ve even heard that it comes from a Creole word for that part of the bayou that isn’t quite land or water – who knows?
Everyone’s got a theory, everyone has a recipe. And everyone loves to eat a pot whipped up by someone else. There is a good reason for this. If you are a novice, you need to understand what you are getting into. Like good barbecue, or chili, there is a prep time followed by a lot of waiting punctuated with some tinkering. Gumbo, however, is a lot more involved or, more to the point, a King Rex-sized pain in the rear. There is chopping galore, then some messy browning. After that, there is a roux, which will require stirring and folding for about 30 percent longer than is actually fun — no bathroom breaks — and someone needs to bring you a drink. This is followed by more stirring, coaxing, assembling, stirring, adjusting, tinkering, waiting, stirring and some more waiting.
You can be forgiven for thinking that this sounds like a lot of work, because you’re absolutely right. The upside is that you’re likely to have a house full of people at the time and if the conversation gets tedious you can always say, “Hold that thought, I’ve got to give the gumbo a good stir.” Knowing full well that no one is going to hold said thought.
Like a Saints fan’s relationship to their home team, gumbo is complicated. Its father was a West African stew, its mother a French bouillabaisse.
Duck and andouille? Brown the meat first. Seafood gumbo? Throw it in last. On Team Okra? Sauté it first for about five minutes to get rid of the off-putting sliminess, remove and wipe the pan. Team Filé? Talk to my wife, I have no idea how that works. This is just one of those irreconcilable differences that crop up in marriages after about a month and a half.
Most recipes will call for some red wine. After writing a spirits column for years, I have managed an informed opinion about that. Use more. The rule of thumb is true enough: Don’t cook with wine you wouldn’t drink. However, that doesn’t mean that you need to use the stuff you’d drink on your anniversary or when the judge dismisses that lawsuit. That’s just wasting money and there is plenty of drinkable plonk out there.
Officially, I’m not including my recipe here because I’ve never met two gumbo people who make theirs the same way, and I don’t want to hear about it on Instagram. Practically, it’s that I’ve never actually written it down. This isn’t laziness, not exactly, but being a moron without proper instructions does have its advantages: You can learn from competing gumbos.
Over the years I’ve written no fewer than three restaurant reviews in New Orleans where I sat down alone and, somehow, wound up eating and laughing with a complete stranger. A few years back, I wandered into Lüke on St. Charles Avenue and ordered a bowl. I took one bite and thought, “Oh Lord, I've been making my roux wrong all these years!” We spent the rest of the meal trying to reverse-engineer my dinner. Honestly, you’ll never get anywhere if you can’t learn from your mistakes.
So yes, Gumbo is both unbuttoned and refined. It’s a royal pain in the rear as well, but a glorious one. And well worth the effort. As I’ve gotten older, feeding people has become one of life’s great pleasures for me. Certainly not as lively as some of my earlier lunacy, but more satisfying. I could never explain to my younger self the joy of good conversation around a table – something of a lost art these days. Sometimes even that pales to the crowning joy: If you’ve hit every note in this involved process just so – there’s that point where the conversation stops and they just eat.
