Between the Bread

Perhaps no humble sandwich comes dressed with as many stories as the New Orleans po'boy. Dating back to the 19th century, the fried oyster version was called "the peacemaker" because it was offered to angry wives when their husbands stayed out too late. But it was reborn as the po'boy during the Great Depression, when so many great American sandwiches, including the sloppy Joe, came of age.

The po'boy tale begins in 1929, when New Orleans's streetcar workers went on strike, and Bennie and Clovis Martin — the owners of a local coffee stand and former streetcar workers themselves — announced they would feed the strikers free sandwiches. In a letter to the union, they pledged: "Our Meal is free to any members of Division 194. . . . We are with you till h--l freezes, and when it does, we will furnish blankets to keep you warm."

So what was in these free sammies? You might be surprised.

Charlatans! Regrettably, this place was closed when I walked by, so I couldn't go in and pummel them.

My dear friend Anna always claimed not to like oysters. Having grown up on the Gulf of Mexico, this makes me sad — and suspicious that, as a Wyoming native, she just never had a good oyster. But in New Orleans, she came around.

After sampling her husband's fried oyster po'boy at Parasol's, Anna realized it was just raw oysters that made her squirm, so before we left town, she had to have an oyster po'boy of her own, over brunch at The Old Coffee Pot. I mention this because it's wonderfully in keeping with the oyster po'boy's reputation as an offering from husbands to wives.

One of the country's oldest sandwiches, the "oyster loaf" in the 1800s was called la mediatrice, or "the peacemaker," because boozin' husbands brought them home to make their waiting wives less angry about their misdeeds. In Anna's case, her husband's mediatrice helped her make peace with fried oysters.

Y'all, I had no idea when I planned my recent trip to New Orleans that it was soft shell crab season! Well, at least it was, until thousands upon thousands of gallons of oil spilled into the Gulf, contaminating the local sealife. As upset as I am about this, I'll try to focus on the joy of po'boys for the moment.

I had heard good things about Parasol's, a neighborhood bar in the Irish Channel with a back room for grub. According to my wise friend Shirley Bordelon, "One of my friends used to say that it was the only po'boy where she felt like licking her elbows when she finished because the gravy was so thick and luscious that it ran down her arms." Alas, I wanted to try the beef, but I could not resist the rare, in-season soft shell crab. So how was it?

New Orleans is one of the great sandwich cities, rivaled perhaps only by Philadelphia. Though it lays claim to just two iconic sammies — the po'boy and the muffuletta — both are transcendent, and the po'boy comes in so many varieties that it's pretty much a category of its own. In honor of Mardi Gras, take a 'wich trip through New Orleans's sandwich history.

The Great Heated Muffuletta Debate	Central Grocery: A Whole Lotta 'Letta
The Fight to Preserve the Po'Boy	'Wich Trip: Legendary Po'Boys at Domilise's

Meanwhile, I'm going to New Orleans again in April, so if anyone has any recommendations, please share. I haven't been to Parkway, so that might be on my list.

The po'boy is one of the country's oldest and most beloved sandwiches. The fried oyster version dates back to the 1800s, when it was nicknamed la mediatrice, or "the peacemaker," because husbands brought them home to placate angry wives. So why should it need saving?

In the New York Times this week, Southern food historian John T. Edge tackles the topic of po'boy preservation ahead of NOLA's Po-Boy Preservation Festival next weekend. I've never had the honor of attending the festival, but I have eaten my fair share of po'boys, like this fried oyster number at Acme Oyster House.

I've also spoken with Katherine and Sandy Whann, the owners of Leidenheimer Baking Company and the forces behind the festival, about the threats to the po'boy business. Here's why they are worried.

The muffuletta has changed very little since its invention in 1906, but the most major modification is also the most controversial: heating the sandwich in the oven, so that the bread is toasted and the cheese is melted.

Normally, I err on the side of heated sandwiches, but with the muffuletta, I come down on the cold side. And I'm not the only one with a strong opinion. According to Tom Fitzmorris, host of “The Food Show” on New Orleans’s WWL, “Every time this comes up on my radio show, it’s a guaranteed hour or two-hour conversation,” says Fitzmorris. So allow me to continue it.