January 16th & 19th: The Return of King Cake - the Soloman of the South - and the Subsequent "baby" Wars

Written Tuesday, January 16th & Friday, January 19th
2007
The Return of King Cake - the Soloman of the South -
and the Subsequent “baby” Wars

Since “Twelfth Night”, a terrible tradition has
pervaded the office, one that is bound to make us all
ripe for stuffing and roasting, complete with a big
cherry red apple in our mouths. That’s right, the
return of the King…King Cake that is.
Named for the three kings who took twelve days and
nights to find the baby Jesus, the confectionary makes
its debut on January 6th (The Epiphany, or “Twelfth
Night”, an evening of old Southern balls and revelry)
and is served in our office every Friday in a
gluttonous and jubilant celebration until Fat Tuesday
(February 20th this year).
King Cake is something akin to bread, but with a
consistency more along the lines of a Cinnamon roll
from Dunkin Donuts. It’s usually covered with icing
often in the colors of Mardi Gras (Green, Purple and
Gold), but sometimes white, in which case it is
adorned with sprinkles of the same above said colors.

We’ve had several (I think five was the last count),
one had pecans (or pralines as they’re known down
here) crushed inside with a cinnamon/raisin flavored
syrup; one was more doughy with cinnamon flavoring,
and today’s - which was one of the best – had a
cinnamon essence with a slightly undercooked bread
dough flavor.
The best King Cake, per my co-worker, Production
Secretary Justin Groetsch (pronounced Grutch),
apparently no longer exists. It was made by the
McKenzies, who owned a shop by the same name. They
actually closed shortly before Katrina, having gone
out of business a little too soon. The next best one
comes from Randazzo, although I’d have to argue that
The Laurel Street Bakery, which we had today, would
give them a run for their money.
Now the most bazaar part is what lies secretly stashed
within the cake. To my amusement on the outside of
one box of cake (I believe bought at Walmart), and I
kid you not, it read:

“WARNING – Non-edible baby inside cake”

Yes, compared to the edible kind.
Now I know our crew just got back from the Caribbean,
but please, they stopped eating other humans there
long ago.

So yes, within the King Cake lies a small plastic baby
and whoever gets the slice with the Christ child has
to buy the next one. Suffice it to say, no one in the
office has yet come forward (the cheapskates in
Accounting most likely). However, between the Embassy
Suites, Enterprise and other adoring vendors who keep
supplying us with King Cake after King Cake, we will
all be sufficiently plump by Mardis Gras.
You can read more on the tradition here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King_Cake

Thursday, January 18, 2007
The Death of Oyster Girl

Felix’s in the French Quarter, the location of my
first taste of that succulent, briny aphrodisiac, my
beloved oyster, has yet to open its doors again since
Katrina.
I don’t know who I have to supplicate to in order to
get the doors to swing wide again, but whoever it is,
I’ll do it.
Across from the famed ACME bar (which overflowed with
tourists who'd read about it in some cheesy travel mag
and were afraid to try anything different) it was
always on the emptier side, its business probably
offset by the other Felix’s around New Orleans and
Metairie.
And this is my only comfort, the knowledge that there
exists others. There’s one on Prytania near Robert
street (where the famed, and I think Zagat overrated,
crêperie, La Crêpe Nanou lives) a few doors down from
the Creole Creamery, one that I hope to visit soon.
I can already tell from the exterior that it doesn’t
have the same atmosphere as the one on Iberville near
Bourbon had (it looks clean and respectable) with its
minimal chatter, the all too familiar blare of a jazz
saxaphone, Shucker banter and the dingy light I’d
imagine one might have found in the Oyster basements
of ol’ New York, circa 1820; the smoke highlighting
the small amount of sunlight filtered through the old
stained glass... but it’s probably worth trying none
the less.
Either way, you can’t beat a town that gives you a
plate of oysters, a dozen, for the low, low price of
$8-12! I will be sure to wash it down with a Toasted
Amber (Abita, the local souther beer, run through
coffee beans) and breath in a New Orleans night.
Maybe even hear more of the secadas. But that would
just be Lagniappe*.
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*For those interested in what that means, basically "a
bonus", but Mark Twain described it best in: Life on
the Mississippi (1883), calling it "a word worth
travelling to New Orleans to get":

We picked up one excellent word — a word worth
travelling to New Orleans to get; a nice limber,
expressive, handy word — "lagniappe." They pronounce
it lanny-yap.
It is Spanish — so they said. We discovered it at the
head of a column of odds and ends in the Picayune, the
first day; heard twenty people use it the second;
inquired what it meant the third; adopted it and got
facility in swinging it the fourth. It has a
restricted meaning, but I think the people spread it
out a little when they choose. It is the equivalent of
the thirteenth roll in a "baker's dozen." It is
something thrown in, gratis, for good measure. The
custom originated in the Spanish quarter of the city.
When a child or a servant buys something in a shop —
or even the mayor or the governor, for aught I know —
he finishes the operation by saying — "Give me
something for lagniappe."
The shopman always responds; gives the child a bit of
licorice-root, gives the servant a cheap cigar or a
spool of thread, gives the governor — I don't know
what he gives the governor; support, likely.
When you are invited to drink, and this does occur now
and then in New Orleans — and you say, "What, again? —
no, I've had enough;" the other party says, "But just
this one time more — this is for lagniappe." When the
beau perceives that he is stacking his compliments a
trifle too high, and sees by the young lady's
countenance that the edifice would have been better
with the top compliment left off, he puts his "I beg
pardon — no harm intended," into the briefer form of
"Oh, that's for lagniappe."