The Gumbo Scene
© 1988 by Steven K. Roberts
Nomadic Research Labs
(this is a short excerpt from the Computing Across America book,
currently out of print)
I rode to Louisiana State University and nosed about for awhile, as was
my custom -- stopping here and there to chat and get the flavor of the
place.
Needing a new tire, I stopped at Precision Bicycles, just off
campus. An exuberant and beaming fellow took one look at my bike
and offered a place to stay: "I have a roommate, and it's not
much, but we would be honored and blessed by your visit." He was
obviously genuine.
Well OK, why not?
Talk about throwing the lion to the Christians!
I stopped at the apartment to wash away the sweat before dinner,
pausing in the living room to look around at the collection of Bibles,
pamphlets, religious plaques, crosses, and posters. All of their artifacts were
iconographic. I was just coming to the conclusion that I was in
the presence of some very hard-core Jesus freaks when my new friends,
Paul and Eliot, spirited me off to dinner.
Ah, the Gumbo House. Boudin, gumbo, shrimp etouffe, and a beer
for me. The food appeared on the table in a swirl of hot
evocative smells, and I groped salivating for my spoon.
Gumbo. Oh God, look at that gumbo!
Paul gently took my right hand.
Eliot gently took my left. HELLO?
And then they began praying -- loudly, fervently, passionately.
The thread passed back and forth between them like a game of spiritual
hacky-sack, growing more elaborate with each volley as the players
limbered up. I want my gumbo.
I gazed morosely into the slowly-cooling bowl, my hands imprisoned in
the trembling grip of my enraptured hosts. The waitress arrived
with a basket of garlic bread, and stood at the table unsure: uh,
do I put this down, come back later, close my eyes, or what? I
looked at her and shrugged. Hey, at least your hands are free.
People were staring. I had the crazy thought of dropping my face
doglike to the bowl and lapping up my gumbo while Paul and Eliot
rhapsodized about the miracle of this young man's journey and the
bounty of Thy table...
Gumbo. I want my fucking gumbo. The aroma of tabasco
tickled my nose, and a plump pink shrimp lay half-submerged in the
thick stew of okra, rice, chicken, and dark Cajun secrets. A
half-split steaming link of boudin beside the bowl spilt its spicy
filling onto the plate. Little bubbles burst one by one in the
frothy head of my cold beer. My stomach rumbled and the waitress
waited; people watched and my hosts prayed.
With a bit of critical-path management, we could have taken care of all
this before the food arrived
-- if we had started immediately after placing our order.
Amen.