nectarines up onto a counter. Behind the counter, a woman with her hair covered in a bandanna and wearing dirty bib overalls
and a very stained apron is chiding him about the quality of the fruit he brought her last week.
In the center of all the activity, a delivery truck is unloading fish into the side door of a restaurant. They’re taking the
occasion to make their fresh catches available to the locals. Two men are hauling huge, bloody cuts onto several nearby tables
covered with newspaper. Two teenage girls are shouting, laughing, and throwing around what appears to be yellowtail tuna like
bags of sand. The guy’s daughters, I imagine. I think about Jenny. I can’t picture the two of us slinging fish together. She’d
never relax around me enough to keep from dropping them.
The smell of fish is heavy but not bad. It’s kind of nice. Something real. I’m struck that not much of my life is like this.
When was the last time I walked through a street market? When was the last time I walked around without my laptop on a Thursday
afternoon?
Suddenly someone begins to yell in our direction from across the street. An immense, bearded, dark-skinned man is approaching
us, and he’s not smiling. “Andy Monroe! What the deal is? You bring the suit down here to audit us?” He’s signing for the
fish delivered into his restaurant.
“No!” Andy yells back. “You have to actually make money for someone to audit you. The suit’s here to foreclose on you.”
The immense bearded man leans back and laughs hard. “Git on in here now. Tell the suit lunch is on me.”
Immediately we’re ushered through the front doors of a seafood restaurant called Pacific Bayou, which Andy tells me everyone
calls Bo’s. The large man is Bo. He is as loud as he is intimidating. We’re whisked through the dining room and out onto a
patio, where several tables and some standing heaters sit on a deck.
Bo, with a firm grip on my arm, guides me to a nearby table. “Your friend, he sits right here at this table every Thursday,
summer, winter, rain or shine. What the deal is with that? Don’t ask me,
cher
. Git you a seat. You need a menu?”
But Andy’s at my side again. “Bo, this is my friend Steven. He has an anger issue.”
“Like I
don’t
?” Bo says, fixing me with a devastating stare.
“We need a bucket of clams,” Andy says. “I’ll have the jambalaya and a glass of ice. My friend needs your shrimp cocktail.”
“We got us none of dat,” Bo bellows. “We got us carp. You git you some six-day-old carp, and you’ll like it.”
With that Bo disappears back into the restaurant, barking out orders, insults, and greetings in every direction.
“He says that almost every time, no matter what I order. One day I’m gonna order six-day-old carp and see what he does.”
I shake my head a little. “The guy’s pretty intimidating. I guess he’s kidding, but he sure doesn’t look like it.”
“He’s a pussycat, trust me,” Andy says, grinning. “He came out here about twelve years ago from New Orleans with two thousand
dollars and a headful of recipes. And he’s done well.”
“Yeah, Cajun was catching on about then. Who ever heard of the stuff before that? He caught a good wave apparently.”
“Not just a wave,” he says. “A guy like Bo will do well no matter what the current rage is. Sorry about the word
rage
,” he mumbles under his breath. “I know it’s a sensitive area for you.”
I smile. “Good one,” I say.
“But really,” he continues, “he loves what he does and loves seeing people smile when they taste his food. He’s the kind of
guy who takes care of his customers. When you do the job for the love of it, it’s hard to go wrong.”
“So where does a name like Bo come from?” I ask.
“Bodinet LaCombe,” a booming voice returns just behind my ear. I about jump out of my skin. Bo is there with a glass of water
and a glass of ice. “Now who gonna go
and a very stained apron is chiding him about the quality of the fruit he brought her last week.
In the center of all the activity, a delivery truck is unloading fish into the side door of a restaurant. They’re taking the
occasion to make their fresh catches available to the locals. Two men are hauling huge, bloody cuts onto several nearby tables
covered with newspaper. Two teenage girls are shouting, laughing, and throwing around what appears to be yellowtail tuna like
bags of sand. The guy’s daughters, I imagine. I think about Jenny. I can’t picture the two of us slinging fish together. She’d
never relax around me enough to keep from dropping them.
The smell of fish is heavy but not bad. It’s kind of nice. Something real. I’m struck that not much of my life is like this.
When was the last time I walked through a street market? When was the last time I walked around without my laptop on a Thursday
afternoon?
Suddenly someone begins to yell in our direction from across the street. An immense, bearded, dark-skinned man is approaching
us, and he’s not smiling. “Andy Monroe! What the deal is? You bring the suit down here to audit us?” He’s signing for the
fish delivered into his restaurant.
“No!” Andy yells back. “You have to actually make money for someone to audit you. The suit’s here to foreclose on you.”
The immense bearded man leans back and laughs hard. “Git on in here now. Tell the suit lunch is on me.”
Immediately we’re ushered through the front doors of a seafood restaurant called Pacific Bayou, which Andy tells me everyone
calls Bo’s. The large man is Bo. He is as loud as he is intimidating. We’re whisked through the dining room and out onto a
patio, where several tables and some standing heaters sit on a deck.
Bo, with a firm grip on my arm, guides me to a nearby table. “Your friend, he sits right here at this table every Thursday,
summer, winter, rain or shine. What the deal is with that? Don’t ask me,
cher
. Git you a seat. You need a menu?”
But Andy’s at my side again. “Bo, this is my friend Steven. He has an anger issue.”
“Like I
don’t
?” Bo says, fixing me with a devastating stare.
“We need a bucket of clams,” Andy says. “I’ll have the jambalaya and a glass of ice. My friend needs your shrimp cocktail.”
“We got us none of dat,” Bo bellows. “We got us carp. You git you some six-day-old carp, and you’ll like it.”
With that Bo disappears back into the restaurant, barking out orders, insults, and greetings in every direction.
“He says that almost every time, no matter what I order. One day I’m gonna order six-day-old carp and see what he does.”
I shake my head a little. “The guy’s pretty intimidating. I guess he’s kidding, but he sure doesn’t look like it.”
“He’s a pussycat, trust me,” Andy says, grinning. “He came out here about twelve years ago from New Orleans with two thousand
dollars and a headful of recipes. And he’s done well.”
“Yeah, Cajun was catching on about then. Who ever heard of the stuff before that? He caught a good wave apparently.”
“Not just a wave,” he says. “A guy like Bo will do well no matter what the current rage is. Sorry about the word
rage
,” he mumbles under his breath. “I know it’s a sensitive area for you.”
I smile. “Good one,” I say.
“But really,” he continues, “he loves what he does and loves seeing people smile when they taste his food. He’s the kind of
guy who takes care of his customers. When you do the job for the love of it, it’s hard to go wrong.”
“So where does a name like Bo come from?” I ask.
“Bodinet LaCombe,” a booming voice returns just behind my ear. I about jump out of my skin. Bo is there with a glass of water
and a glass of ice. “Now who gonna go
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