New Orleans Shrimp Po'Boy with Cajun Remoulade

The po'boy was born from generosity. During the 1929 streetcar strike in New Orleans, Benny and Clovis Martin served free sandwiches to striking workers from their French Market restaurant. "Here comes another poor boy," they'd call out. The name stuck. The sandwich became a symbol of feeding people well without charging them dearly.

What makes a proper shrimp po'boy isn't complicated, but it demands attention. The shrimp must be Gulf-caught if you can find them, their natural sweetness intensified by a cornmeal crust that shatters audibly when you bite down. The bread matters enormously. New Orleans French bread has a crackling crust and cotton-soft interior that no baguette can replicate. If you can't find it, look for a loaf with similar architecture: crisp outside, pillowy within.

The remoulade is where Louisiana announces itself. This isn't the pink cocktail sauce some restaurants pass off under the name. True Cajun remoulade carries heat from cayenne, pungency from whole-grain mustard, brightness from lemon and capers. It should wake you up, not lull you to sleep. Make it ahead. It improves overnight as the flavors marry.

I've eaten po'boys at Domilise's, at Parkway, at places with no name on the door. The best ones share one quality: abundance. The shrimp threaten to escape the bread. The lettuce cascades. The remoulade drips onto newspaper if you're lucky enough to have it served that way. This is not a sandwich for the timid.