ABOUT RAGIN' CAJUN

No one would believe me if I told them I had opened Ragin’ Cajun because of a steak sandwich. Actually it was not any ordinary steak sandwich for this one came flying through the air and crashed against the wall just inches from my head.

The chef had thrown it at me because the cheese had coagulated while he burned a chicken kabob for the second time. I refused to take it out to the customer. I said to the chef,” You cooked it, you take it out.” Crash. I told the customer that the chef was mentally ill and that the steak sandwich had met with an unfortunate fate. If the customer wanted, I would have been happy to make him a salad. 

I got fired. I was told I did not work hard enough.

My rapport with chefs has never been good. One guy Rico use to scream profanities into the dining room calling the waitresses every horrible word in the book. Even that one. One night I threw a tampon at him and it bounced off his head and burnt up on the grill in between a rack of baby back ribs and a T-bone. Later that night, he whipped a hard-boiled egg through the dining room. It bashed me in the ear.

So for a “chef” to whip a steak sandwich with coagulated cheese at my head was right in line with the hard boiled eggs, the knives, the plates, ice snow balls and stock pots I have had to dodge throughout the years.

I left college in 1982. I traveled the resort circuit working in St. Thomas, Park City, Utah, The Outer Banks, and somehow ended up in Virginia Beach where JoJo introduced me to Cajun food. In the summer of 1989 I came to New Jersey to visit my grandparents. I decided to stay. Thank God because Grandma passed the following summer. What a terrific year I had! 

I went back to school thinking that I would be a Lawyer. I got fired from seven jobs in three years for being, well, um, let’s just say I am a little too sassy for management. My accountant told me I was unemployable.

The flying steak sandwich was the last straw. I decided to rent a tiny storefront in Belmar, New Jersey for a couple of years. I wanted to prove to all those culinary school paper hatted idiots that the restaurant business is sooooo easy that even a dumb-ass girl with no formal training could run one successfully.

I chose Cajun food because I found that every menu in the area had a “Cajun” item on the menu but there was no “Cajun” food. Not the real thing anyway. Besides, I figured if anything, I would eat well. I did some research and had come to love the whole concept of the Cajun people. Their cuisine merely marks a way of life and a style of living indicative of the character of the Cajun people themselves. There is such a spirit to their imagination, creativity and abundance of love much needed in the world today. I try to convey that same love of life at the Ragin’ Cajun. With the help of my staff and the tolerance of my clientele, I believe we have accomplished an incredible taste of the Bayou. 

Sixteen and a half years later, I sit in a beautiful white house overlooking the Shark River Basin thanking God I never took the LSAT. 

My friend Billy comes in and we are talking about how far I have come on such a spiteful whim. I stand behind the stove in my apron cooking up Broccoli and Crab Soup. He stands next to me drinking iced tea talking to me while I stir the pot. I tell him I am happy for my success and that I feel I am right where I am supposed to be.

He points to my feet and laughs. “Who gave you shoes?” I throw a lime at his head. He ducks and it splats against the wall. I suppose I am no different from a chef only I don’t wear whites and I laugh as I whip things across the room. I make some Chicken Etouffé for Billy and myself.

 I serve it at the counter where we both sit down to eat. I think that I would never serve a steak sandwich with coagulated cheese. In fact, I would never serve anything I wouldn’t eat myself. 

GOOD GUMBO

I got into an argument with a guy who would not be convinced that I could cook good Cajun food. “No Yankee,” he said, “could possibly make a decent gumbo.” I said nothing because I don’t put okra in mine, I think it is disgusting although Suzy and I argue about it all the time. 

My new friends tell me they are from Baton Rouge. The one asks me in a singsong little kid taunting, “so,” he chimes, “ how long does it take you to make a roux?”

The other boys stand up taller. “Gotter there Jolene. Yup ya did.” One guy’s picking his teeth with what looks like an oil dipstick but I know it isn't. I can’t figure out what it is but it is much too big to be flossing one’s teeth. 

Jolene’s all beside himself. He challenges me again with his little song: “So-o, how long does it take you to make yer roux, huh?” 

Making roux is the hardest part about making gumbo and I stress every time. In fact, the first time I ever tried, my little cottage stunk like burnt peanut butter for two weeks. 

I was told that first you heat up your oil until it smokes and then you gradually sprinkle in the flour whisking away and switching hands because your arm gets tired. When I first decided to put together this cookbook I asked Suzy to time me because I can think about nothing but trying not to burn the roux. Then I would have to start over and my arms are already tired. And who likes the smell of burnt peanut butter? 

Suzy agrees to time me but when I have finished and ask her how long did it take, she says, “Huh?” Again I ask, “how long did it take for me to make the roux?” “Oh yeah,” she says, “well, uh, well… I had two glasses of wine.” 

I tell my friends from Baton Rouge that it takes two glasses of wine to make a dark red roux. Jolene looks at me perplexed. “Nat,” he says, “does two glasses of wine mean the same thing as a six pack?” 

Nat looks around at the others and then back at Jolene. The guy with the dipstick is now scratching his calf with his “floss.” “I suppose,” he said, “though I reckon it depends on who’s doin’ the drinkin’.” “How do you figure?” asks Jolene. Nat replies, “You don’t like wine Jolene so you would burn that roux.” Jolene looks at Nat and then looks around to the others and then back to me. “I reckon,” he says, “ that you might be the only Yankee I knows who can cook a good gumbo.