Since we now have a coon-ass in the family, Mardi Gras and its associated holiday’s, have become much more important. At least the party part of them has. Yesterday’s Fat Tuesday was no different (though my sister-inlaw wasn’t involved at all). Me and G headed over to Lincoln’s Raodhouse (home of the meat loaf cheeseburger and pot roast burrito), or as it is affectionately called during Mardi Gras: Poirrier’s Cajun Cafe, for their annual crawfish boil. How do you say it Down South? Crawfish or Crayfish? We called them crawdads growing up. Anyway, we settled up to five pounds of crawfish, a six pack of beer, a roll of paper towels, and several beaded necklaces.
The place got pretty crowded and the kitchen was churning out bucket after bucket of crawfish as fast as it could and it wasn’t close to keeping up with demand. By the time the washboard band that was crammed in the corner started blaring their zydofied (I think I just invented a word) zz top music, the place was standing room only. The dancing began but we left before the place it was in full fervor, which, given the clientele in this place, was probably a good idea. I don’t care to imagine the place with beads, beer bottles, and boobs flying around.