Born and raised in 'da Parish, just a stone's throw from the 9th Ward, my Mama wielded a mean spatula. She taught me well: Butter over margarine, the darker the roux the better, and there's nothing wrong with a little whiskey in your Coke, as long as it's after noon. At 17 I left for the Marines, where I discovered how truly awful bad füd can be. Since then I've done some of this, a little of that, and way too much of that other thing. Currently you can find me munching across New Orleans, gavel firmly in hand. Justice, like lunch, must be served.

 

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