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It's a cut-throat business & everybody is a critic.


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  • It's a cut-throat business & everybody is a critic.

    I'm talking about the gumbo trade of course. Even if you get a good review, your competitors start to circle you like vultures. They can't beat me. My gumbo is nostalgia served in a cup or a bowl. But they can make cheap imitations, counterfeits. Soon enough, they'll be importing gumbo from China.

    Not only that, I have to cope with all these new gumbo trafficking laws the US is trying to force other countries to adopt. Every time I cook up a pot, my restaurant is crawling with federales & waiting for me to a wrong move. I can't even walk into a market stall and buy bell-peppers anymore, without vendors giving me the once over. And forget about hot sauce. I'd be hauled in for questioning if I even tried to make a purchase. I have to send out straw purchasers for my Louisiana Gold, Crystal, or when nothing else is around - Tobasco.

    Take my advice - play it safe. Become a rich and famous music star. Don't paddle your pirogue down into the gumbo dream. It's muddy. It's murky and it's deep. You'll likely end up without your wooden paddle and your ambitions will have vanished into the roux of life like so many slices of okra.

    He has escaped! Youtube , ​Murika , France

  • #2

    I found it most effective to read this whole thing in the voice of Eliot Ness, as played by Robert Stack in the 1959 TV series, "The Untouchables."  Or was it the voice of the narrator... Walter Winchell.  Yeah I think that was it.


    “Music is well said to be the speech of angels... nothing among the utterances allowed to man is felt to be so divine."

    ~Thomas Carlyle


    • #3
      You're going to need Smurfs to procure your bell peppers
      Ain't no sacrilege to call Elvis king
      Dad is great and all but he never could sing -


      • Etienne Rambert
        Etienne Rambert commented
        Editing a comment
        Even the Smurfs are watching their backs and covering their tracks these days. The paranoia is spreading. If I buy green or red bell peppers, people might assume I'm making a political statement. If I buy yellow bell peppers, they might call me a coward to my face. Smurfs as straw purchasers? I wouldn't try it unless there were blue bell peppers. I have to live in the real world every day.

        The authorities leaned on me pretty hard tonight. I can't put out sidewalk tables for five days now. Why?
        Someone died. Not from my gumbo - from old age. Someone far away. But it's all connected.
        The okra melts into the roux And once it gets started, there's no pulling it apart again.

        The tragic thing is the devolution. I know there are sweat-shops starting up now in Dacca and Shenzen. Kids will waste their lives stirring pots with wooden spoons. And if the Indians get a hold of it, there will be hell to pay for the world. Those people think there's nothing you can't do with clarified, rarefied, butter.

        But I'm not talking about chicken masala here. This is the the real deal, the big leagues. This is the gumbo trade. I don't want to be just a one-hit wonder. I'm working on a shrimp po boy that could blow the lid off everything. But if it's my fate, so be it. I intend to walk away from the stove with my integrity in tact.

        Maybe I'll retire and go into something less stressful, like becoming a rich, famous music star.