I fell in love with gumbo way back in the early 1980’s when Paul Prudhomme made his groundbreaking appearance on NBC’s Today show. Witnessing the swarthy and beefy Prudhomme, with his thick Cajun accent and funny skimmer hat making Cajun gumbo on television was like seeing my first punk rock show. It hit all the notes I needed. It was dark, dirty, spicy and had an attitude. It was an exciting time when we cooks were “allowed” to veer from classic French and Italian cooking into new directions. This was when the American food scene was making its own identity. Cajun-Creole emerged as one of the first “New American Regional” cuisines and it opened the door for the anything goes food revolution that is still unfolding in the US.
From that point forward, I sought to make the best gumbo in the Northeast. There was no internet in the 80’s, so I went to the library and gathered all the books I could find on Louisiana cooking. I also found recipes in Gourmet, Bon Appetit and a few other food magazines and I even found some old New Orleans Lady’s Auxiliary and Catholic church recipe books. I also watched Justin Wilson make his Ooo-weee! Cajun Country on PBS. I tried recipe after recipe, until eventually, through tweaking of my own I made the gumbo that had what I believed to be the perfect balance of swampiness, earth, tartness, spiciness and depth of flavor; the whole shebang. It’s a delicious Creole seafood gumbo with shrimp, crab and crawfish and a bit of tomato juice. I thickened it with dark mahogany colored roux. I also added okra for texture. FInally, just before serving I sprinkled it with a little File Gumbo powder, just to enhance the earthy aroma.
Over the next 30 years, I served my version of gumbo in both of my restaurants and at scores of parties. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that hundreds of people have told me it was the best gumbo they’ve ever had, better than anything they’ve had in New Orleans. Even non-chef friends from New Orleans told me that my gumbo was worthy, which is high praise for this Northeast chef! So then why do I need a gumbo comeuppance?
Fast forward 30ish years to 2018. I was hosting my first food tour of New Orleans. My group explored music, culture and of course, food. On our itinerary was lunch at the landmark Commander's Palace, the restaurant where both Paul Prodomme and Emeril Lagasse worked and became two of America's best known chefs. It was actually my first meal there and I was as excited as my guests were. We were served a traditional prix fixe High Creole lunch menu; choice of seafood gumbo or turtle soup, followed by blackened redfish or chicken fricassee and ending with bananas Foster. Of course I chose the Commander’s Famous Creole Gumbo for my first course. I was astonished and, yea, a little vindicated by how much my Northeast guy’s gumbo tasted like Commander’s; similar texture and tang, and the same depth of flavor.
Later that week on our NOLA tour we had a Red Beans and Rice Monday supper experience at Melissa Martin’s up and coming speakeasy restaurant the Mosquito Supper Club. Of course, now her cookbook is a big hit and the Mosquito Supper Club is one of NOLA’s most difficult reservations to obtain, but back then, it was still a local secret. After our dinner we chatted a bit about what I did as a chef. I told her about my “New World” menu where I featured an array of some of the world’s best spicy dishes. I cockily mentioned that I made a pretty mean gumbo myself. When she asked what kind of gumbo I made I made the fatal mistake of replying “I make a classic Creole gumbo”. ERROR, ERROR! I didn't realize at the time I was speaking to an expert on Louisiana regional cooking. She abruptly told me that there is no such thing as classic gumbo. She derided my comment, lecturing me on the fact that every parish had their own rendition of gumbo and within every parish, every family made their own version of that. She scornfully told me that I should never use the world classic when referring to gumbo. I felt like a real carpetbagger. This is when the real Gumbo homework began for me.
In spring of 2019 I was in Taormina, Sicily. I had finished hosting my first tour of Sicily and was staying in for another week to explore for future tours. One sultry night I was strolling the town, walking off my multicourse dinner. I took a seat at a small table in an outdoor cafe for a coffee. At the table next to me there was an fiery blonde woman chattering into her cellphone with what I immediately identified as a New Orleans accent. When she hung up I leaned over and simply said “Thank you”. She just looked at me with a puzzled and slightly violated expression. I clarified my comment by explaining that I hadn't heard American English in a week and how it was oddly soothing to my frazzled brain. I introduced myself as a chef from New York and asked if she was also in the business.
By serendipitous chance, the woman was Amy Sins, a New Orleans celebrity chef. She was also hosting a tour of Sicily. We eased into a polite conversation, talking about Sicilian food and Nola and my town, Woodstock. Then, as it always happens when talking with someone from Louisiana, the subject came to gumbo. I told her the story of my “Classic Gumbo” comment at Mosquito Supper Club. I took a chance. I hoped I might gain a little sympathy or at least empathy, but no go. As I explained my use of roux, okra and file powder she pounced, schooling me on gumbo thickening rules.
“First off, you can only use two out of three thickeners, roux, okra or file powder. You should NEVER use all three, EVER. It ain’t gumbo if you mess that part up.” Well, apparently I was messing it up as I used all three thickeners in my gumbo. Then she asked me the trap door question.
“Do ya’ll use tomatoes in your gumbo?”
“ I do, sorta.” I said self consciously. “I used to use tomatoes, then I switched to tomato juice, but now I use a little V-8 juice. It gives it so much pop.”
She smacked me back in an authoritative voice, “Y'all ain’t making gumbo, my friend. I bet it’s tasty, but it ain't gumbo if there are tomatoes in it.”
Having done my research, I foolishly decided to push this beating further.
“But doesn't Creole seafood gumbo have tomatoes in it? I know the famous Arnaud’s gumbo recipe uses tomato juice.” I responded brashly.
“Yea it does, but that it what the tourists get. It is hard to get a REAL gumbo in restaurants in the French Quarter. Locals don't make that stuff.” She proceeded to educate me on how home cooks who use meat and game in their gumbo only thicken with roux, whereas others who specialize in chicken gumbo only use okra. And some real country folk use File Gumbo powder and sassafras exclusively.
I had to keep prying. “Sounds like the food in Sicily. Every village has their way of making things and every home in that village has their own twist.”
She was a like a dog with a bone, “But y‘all need to understand that for Cajuns, Gumbo is almost sacred in its traditions”
“Like Neapolitans with Pizza?” I asked with a smirk.
“Ok, yea, but there is good pizza in a lot of places’”she said.
Yep, and there is good gumbo in a lot of places too.
Your kitchen is a good place to start.
Here are my two gumbo recipes. One for my Creole Seafood Gumbo and one for a Cajun Chicken and Sausage Gumbo. Mardi Gras is February 21st. You have plenty of time. Cook your gumbo and enjoy every bite! And get your Gumbo Comeuppance by making it yourself!
Making Cajun Roux, my way.
There are plenty of ways to make dark, chocolaty roux.
Most are a pain but this is a pretty simple technique.
1 ½ cups flour
2 cups pork lard, duck fat, clarified butter or vegetable oil
Preheat oven to 475 F.
*Remember that dark roux is as hot as caramel, reaching 400-500 degrees. Don't touch it!*
In a heavy, oven-safe skillet, melt the fat (Cast iron is the way to go.)
Add the flour and whisk in until smooth.
Cook over medium high for a few minutes to make sure all of the flour is amalgamated with the fat.
Now put the entire pan in the hot oven and set a timer for 20 minutes. When the
timer goes off, carefully whisk the mix. It should be getting golden. Repeat this
procedure, cutting back the time by 5 minutes each time until your roux resembles chocolate.
Once you've made the roux, you should carefully add some of it to the warm stew.
Bring the stew back to a boil. Add a little more of the roux until you have reached
the desired thickness. The stew will thicken as it boils. Be patient.
You can and should reserve any leftover roux, refrigerated, for up to 3 months.