Shrimp Po'Boy

The po'boy was born in 1929 when Benny and Clovis Martin, former streetcar conductors turned restaurant owners, fed striking transit workers for free. "Here comes another poor boy," they'd say as hungry men lined up. The sandwich outlasted the strike by a century.

What makes a po'boy a po'boy is the bread. Not any French bread will do. You need the real thing from New Orleans: a loaf with a shattering crust and an interior so airy it compresses when you bite without turning gummy. Leidenheimer's is the gold standard. If you can't find it, seek out the lightest, crispiest baguette your bakery sells and accept the compromise.

The shrimp matter too. Gulf shrimp have a sweetness and brine that farmed imports cannot replicate. Coat them in seasoned flour and fine cornmeal, fry them until they crackle, and pile them high. A po'boy should threaten to overflow. Restraint has no place here.

When someone asks if you want your po'boy "dressed," the answer is always yes. That means shredded lettuce, sliced tomatoes, dill pickle coins, and a slather of remoulade or mayonnaise. This is not a sandwich that apologizes for itself.