Cochon de Lait
Only in New Orleans does the line “my friend shat his pants today” win you the favor of locals and the cathartic epiphany of a weekend well-indulged in festival foodlines. Both of these were the result of my 8th journey to the New Orleans Jazzfest last weekend. Marking the finish line in this manner is all too easy – it is truly the landmarks along the journey that provide inspiration for a future generation of festival goers.
A quick note on logistics: although you may think that a redeye flight from Cali to Atlanta to Baton Rouge followed by an economy car rental to New Orleans with mid-weekend dropoff to enable a frantically dispatched return taxi ride to a missed shuttle and fortunate backup Greyhound bus back to Baton Rouge with return flight to Atlanta and Cali is your BEST LOW COST option for Jazzfest travel, my recent experience informs me you may want to reconsider. The taxi ride is a bit overpriced.
To set the virtual table before you, imagine arriving at the Jazzfest site – a sprawling carnival-meets- NASCAR fanbase- meets-hipster 30something mess of people tangled across a landmass that resembles the grounds of a nightmarish Renaissance fair gone music conscious. You know the scene. Music charges the air from all directions as you trudge your way through a turkey leg graveyard from one stage to the next.
But lift yourself out of the drifting herds and take a bird’s eye view on this confederacy of dunces: you will see that at the very center of the festival, not unlike a diseased and atherosclerosized heart, lie the objects of our fancy…the unmistakable Jazzfest food stalls. With several locations maliciously situated as far from the portoshitters as possible, these food stalls are a glimpse into God’s pantry. If God is a jumbo-sized, grease-mongering, spicy assblast-inducing Cajun, that is. Here is but a glimpse of the foodstuffs that sizzle, steam and squish behind those celestial curtains:
