Over the years, I’ve been implored by a number of earnest do-gooders to become part of their organizations, to join hands, fight the good fight and help make the world a better place.  Save Lake Pontchartrain.  Save the Wales.  Ban the Nukes.  Nuke the Wales.  Pave Lake Pontchartrain.  And so on.  But never before has a cause struck me so deeply, so frighteningly close to the bone, as the one I discovered last year, just before Thanksgiving:

Save Our Sandwich.

I leapt to attention, rattled to my very core at the thought of sandwiches in peril.  Dear heavens, I thought, what kind of heartless monster would threaten the existence of a poor, defenseless lunch item?  Was there any common decency left in this world?  Action was called for.  Nay, it was demanded.  And I responded as quickly as you could say “po-boy.”

That response, it turns out, was in the form of attending the 2008 New Orleans Po-Boy Preservation Festival.  Nearly fifteen thousand people came out to Oak Street that afternoon to drink (outdoor consumption being not just tolerated by the NOLA authorities, but genuinely encouraged), dance to country, zydeco and brass bands, and sample sandwich offerings by dozens of vendors.  There were the old stand-bys: roast beef with gravy, fried oyster, shrimp and soft-shell crab, ham and cheese, even an award winning bread pudding po-boy from Ye Olde College Inn (whether or not this was created as an intentional dance atop Dr. Atkins’s tomb remains to be seen), all dressed with lettuce, tomatoes, mayonnaise and pickles, and served on classic New Orleans “French bread.”  I’d long thought that there was little that could surprise me in the way of po-boy technology, being a proud NOLA native, but the ante was upped by newcomer Mahoney’s with a “peacemaker” featuring the classic fried oysters, but with the shocking — and brilliant — addition of bacon and cheddar cheese (seen above).  This, it quickly seemed, was a cause I could really get behind.

So, now that I’d become a stalwart po-boy philanthropist, I knew that to do my part, I needed to revisit the Po-boy Fest the following year.  As I began to make my travel plans to the Crescent City, I had plenty of time to reflect on the impact the po-boy sandwich has made on my life.  The most important thing to realize is that you can only get an authentic po-boy in South or Central Louisiana.  You might be able to find a great Reuben in San Francisco, a killer patty melt in Shanghai, or a terrific banh mi in St. Louis, but you’ll find a decent po-boy sandwich in none of these places.  Even in New York, where many people assume that anything, if called for, can be produced.  Not so the po-boy — and believe me, I’ve looked.

With the Festival soon approaching, I’d have to look no longer to get my fix.  Given the success of the two previous years, the Oak St. Association, who organize the event, decided to push their efforts even further, hosting over forty local eateries to showcase their sandwich-craft and opening up significantly more street space for revelers.  And, in true New Orleans fashion, the NOLA Police Department was selling the hooch — not just beer, but actual booze — for open consumption, right there on the street.  Gotta love it.

Now, this long-cherished sandwich can be filled with just about anything under the sky.  I’ve had po-boys stuffed with everything from french fries to slow-roasted duck.  The key, of course, is the bread.  Here, what we call “French bread” bears only passing resemblance to a genuine French baguette, and, because of the humidity, it is all but impossible to find outside of South Louisiana.  Instead of possessing a hard, crusty exterior, a NOLA loaf is soft and pliable, with a crumbly shell that flakes off as you eat it, perfect for sopping up sauces or, of course, for loading up with po-boy goodies.  And there was plenty of that on this occasion, and then some.

Accompanied by my trusty research assistant (and brother) Colin, we first hit Mahoney’s to see what they cooked up this year.  A novel entry into the vaunted halls of po-boydom, they’d invented something quite brilliant: Fried chicken livers and Creole slaw, accompanied by a generous helping of Crystal hot sauce and chased with a strong bloody mary (it was 11am, after all).

Our next visit was a no-brainer.  Though not a po-boy, Drago’s restaurant was selling their famous charbroiled oysters.  These things are dangerously good - if no one stopped me, I would eat them until, like Mr. Creosote in Monty Python’s “Meaning of Life,” my entire torso exploded, and the police would have to use a shovel and wheelbarrow to get all of me to the morgue.

By now, Oak Street was packed with hungry p0-boy enthusiasts.  Even Santa Claus was getting into the spirit, posing with proud families behind a gigantic sandwich.  Because nothing says “North Pole” like Creole and Cajun food, right?  Our next stop was at the tent run by none other than King Bam himself, Emeril’s Restaurant, who decided upon an inventive take on the BLT: Smoky bacon, lettuce and fried green tomatoes topped with shrimp remoulade.  It was, for lack of a better word, a revelation of flavors and textures.  Things were really starting to get serious.

The problem, at this point, was one of internal capacity (the tank was beginning to fill up) and choice.  No matter how hungry we were, there was simply no way we could sample everything at the party, which was a dispiriting position to be in, as the vendors were eagerly dishing up po-boys filled with everything from BBQ ham to smoked chicken etouffee, bourbon shrimp, chicken-fried steak, “Quack L’Orange,” Creole hot sausage, stuffed mushrooms, cochon de lait (suckling pig), even fried oysters topped with brie fondue, red onions, spinach and tasso cream.  After much deliberation, we decided on a variation of the classic roast beef, in this case long-cooked prime rib “debris,” served with red cabbage and a spicy horseradish sauce.

At the end of the day, having sampled six different sandwiches and plenty of good music and drink, we waddled off into the uptown sunset, filled to brimming not just with amazing food, but with the knowledge that, in our efforts this day, we’d done our duty, a good deed that we could look back upon with pride.  So long as we, and the thousands of other New Orleanians who joined in the revelry that afternoon, continued to do our part, the humble po-boy has no fear of going the way of the dodo.  And with that knowledge, we went home and participated in the one activity that could possibly rival a gargantuan po-boy festival.

Nap time.

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