Sunday, February 24, 2013.
Another Food Hero Gone. Low And Slow On The Egg.
When I picked up the newspaper today, the first thing I saw was the smiling face of Paul McIlhenny, the chairman of his family's Tabasco company. I didn't have to read the headline. The most likely reason for his appearance on Page One was the one. He had a fatal heart attack yesterday.
Here's what you lost:
1. The man who turned Tabasco from a more or less one-product company into the vendor of a vast line of great ingredients, all of them carrying the indelible stamp of Louisiana flavor.
2. One of the most active proponents of the Cajun and Creole cooking cultures to the rest of the world.
3. A terrific storyteller, particularly of tales of going out into the back marshes and coming back with exotic birds and animals to cook in exciting ways that only he would have conceived. (These would not be mere fables.)
4. The first Rex after Katrina. When asked why he was leading a parade after such a disaster, he said that New Orleanians had a greater need of Mardi Gras at that moment than at any other time in our history. He was right.
I personally lost a friend. A regular, entertaining, knowledgeable caller to my radio show. And my source of Tabasco ties. I will wear a Tabasco tie every day for the next week or month in Paul's memory.
The news bummed me out badly. The melancholy lingers even as I write this two days later. In addition to the reasons above, I can't help thinking that the ages of Paul McIlhenny (68) and Steven Latter (the owner of Tujague's, who died last week at 64) have the same first digit as my own age.
Mary Ann said she wanted to cook at home, and that she'd go to the store to buy the goods. She came back with a third of the flat end of a beef brisket and a whole rack of pork ribs. She wanted me to barbecue these. They were on the pit at one. At three, she was asking me when they'd be ready. I could probably finish them in a couple of hours, I said, but really we should let these go until at least six. What?!? she said. I hurried them up and they overcooked. Damn. Paul McIlhenny wouldn't have let that happen.
I took a two-mile walk before the dark clouds rolled in and started raining. (We would have a flood by morning.) I got back to the special writing project to which I am devoting most of my Sundays. A storm figured in the part I was working one. I didn't get much of anywhere with it. I quit and did mindless tasks the rest of the gloomy day.
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