Stovetop Devotion

Fall 2017


           “You know someone’s from Lafayette if they ask for potato salad with their gumbo.” Over trays of gumbo and potato salad, Adam Lathan, head chef at Brooklyn’s The Gumbo Bros., grabs a half a fork of the creamy side before scooping it into his chicken and sausage gumbo. “I don’t like potato salad personally, I never have and I sure as shit don’t like it in my gumbo.” We’re sitting on metal stools in his restaurant’s dining area. The tables and floors are made from 150 year old wooden planks which Lathan’s father, a general contractor specializing in landmarked properties, sourced from New Orleans. Around us are photos, advertisements, and memorabilia, all displaying Louisiana excellence. They proudly display a guiding mantra painted onto the exposed brick wall - Yes Ma’am Yes Sir NO EXCEPTIONS. Outside, below their lacquered red and white Gumbo Bros. sign, neon red lights proudly exclaims:


        The Po’ Boys and New Orleans beer have their own importance to the Gulf but I’m here for the gumbo. One facet of gumbo’s beauty is its openness to interpretation from the very first step. “There is no definitive way to do it and that’s what makes it great. If there was just one way- if it was a standard recipe that you could alter in one tiny way or another, but realistically everyone across the world eats it the exact same - it would suck,” says Lathan.

        Later on in the meal, we watch an iPhone leaning against two bottles of Tabasco and Crystal hot sauce. On the phone is an episode of an Eater web series showcasing New Orleans’s Restaurant R’evolution. The star of the show is a quail, stuffed with andouille sausage, filé-seasoned rice, and poached oysters. Baked and then plated, a server draws it a soup bath made from roux and stock. This dish precariously straddles the gap between tradition and innovation, creating an intriguing yet manufactured take on a branch of Louisiana heritage. Deconstructed to be reconstructed, this boneless bird is Death by Gumbo.




        Flour and fat. Vegetable oil has long been the de facto solvent in roux. Depending on where you travel and who you talk to, you’re sure to find a wide array of opinions on how to make a roux and by extension gumbo, almost all claiming to be definitive.

        Back in the Gumbo Bros. kitchen, three Dutch ovens simmer over the stovetop. Lathan is in his early 30s. Tall and stocky, both his body and personality embody the Gulf joie de vivre, radiating an inexhaustible excitement into his cooking. His smooth features, picture perfect smile, and gregarious nature make him well suited for an afternoon network cooking show.  “One rule I kinda always hear - you want to use two out of three thickeners but if you do a proper roux it doesn’t even thicken the gumbo that much,” says Lathan. They serve three gumbos: seafood, chicken and sausage, and Gumbo z’Herbes. The seafood and chicken and sausage are both made using the same flour based roux, while the z’Herbes uses okra as the primary thickener. At home, he builds a roux in a cast iron skillet, but in the shop they cook it for two to three hours in an oven. Unconventional, its purpose is practical as it allows them to step away from the kitchen to go into the stockroom or answer a phone call. Still, the undisciplined thickener sports a mind of its own and requires a trained touch. “Right when you get to the point where it’s about to burn you gotta pull it. It’s about walking that line,” says Lathan. Despite its current popularity in the kitchen, fat and flour haven’t always been a cook’s go-to when starting a gumbo.

        Just like gumbo’s interpretations, its origins can also be divisive. Stemming from the bantu word for okra, gumbo was traditionally made from its namesake. However, in the winter cooks would use filé power as a substitute, ground up sassafras leaves adopted from the Choctaw. Culinary historian Jessica B. Harris believes the soup’s origins lie in an African leaf sauce brought over by slaves. Chef John Folse, author of numerous books on Louisiana’s foodways, provides an argument that traces it back to German Catholic settlers in Acadia and a seven herb soup they ate on Holy Thursday. The end of the 19th century saw the introduction of roux into the culinary language of gumbo shown in the cookbooks of wealthy Southern women like Mary Chesnut, Mary Randolph and Marion Harland in recipes developed by their black slaves. A vernacular food found in a region resistant to change, gumbo can take many forms.

        “A lot of southern cooking is family recipes and techniques that go over generations and it can sound cheesy but it is very much part of the culture,” says Lathan. Gumbo “embodies Africa, Europe, and Native America with seamless perfection,” states food writer and New Orleans native Lolis Eric Elie.  In the 20th century, community cookbooks like La Fourchette: A Book of Bayou Lafourche Favorite Recipes documented the culinary trends of mostly well-to-do whites. Compiled by the women of The Bayou Woman's Club of Thibodaux, Louisiana it called for a “golden brown roux” in two of its three gumbo recipes. However, with time, roux would get darker.

        Blame Paul Prudhomme, says food writer Elie. Prudhomme, a Cajun from Opelousas, Louisiana was the first American born executive chef at New Orleans’s landmark Commander’s Palace. The Creole cooking that Commander’s is known for is much more cosmopolitan than the country cooking birthed Cajun. Centered around cities and trade, Creole cooking incorporates ingredients and techniques from across the world and prides itself on its sophistication. From his appointment in 1975, the larger than life chef gained celebrity status as he reinvented the menu with his rustic influence. His impact was even felt by a young Adam Lathan, who intensively studied his spiritual heir, Emeril Lagasse, on the Food Network. He built on the technique and tradition of his father by exploring the gourmet world through Emeril Live.

        Prudhomme brought together Cajun and Creole cooking particularly through gumbo, introducing what he dubbed “Cajun Napalm,” but critics like Elie regard it an erasure of Creole heritage. He gave this incendiary moniker to his roux cooked with oil reaching 500℉, well above conventional levels, allowing it to be made in around 15 minutes while giving it a hue closely resembling pureed black beans. With Prudhomme’s status and American’s greater interest in southern cooking, Cajun Napalm and specifically its pitch black color , became almost inseparable with everyday perceptions of gumbo - creating a supposed standard were none had been before.

        Far from standard but rich in history, gumbo z’Herbes is an amalgamation of as many greens willing to get into a pot and in tradition with the German Catholic Acadians, often served for Lent. Collards, cabbage, mustard and turnip greens, chard, watercress, and arugula and whatever else a chef can find can call it home. No bowl is the same. In an okra base, Lathan usually takes collards, kale, spinach, parsley, and mustard greens, 20 to 30 pounds total, to create the rich green medley. Less widely known than other gumbos, it can be hard to find on a menu. The Gumbo Bros. found a way to revive this underrepresented form while adapting it for a New York audience. They made it vegan.




        A Mobile, Alabama native, Lathan finds himself in New Orleans often, and not just when he’s in the kitchen, only making the pilgrimage home to hunt or for holidays. “My fiance is from New Orleans, my sister lives in New Orleans, my dad works primarily out of New Orleans, so I kinda go there like - why the hell would you go anywhere else?”

        Growing up in Mobile, the Lathan family table was always populated with vegetables produced from his father’s vegetable garden and from the expansive Alabama countryside. Squash, butter beans, field peas, okra and tomatoes were household favorites, the last often served simply sliced with salt and pepper. “An hour north you can be in the woods and hunt deer. I can go out to the bayou and you can go duck hunting.” Its rich forests are home to chestnuts, acorns, wild berries and greens, mushrooms and more than 4,000 native species - making it the 5th most biodiverse state in the Union. There, Lathan gained a respect for the land which he found, “very conducive to cooking.”

        Alongside traditional cornbread served with rice and gravy, Lathan’s great-grandmother presented her specialty - gumbo. “Whenever we would get together whether it would be Christmas or Thanksgiving, gumbo was kinda the main dish. It would be as big as the turkey. That was the trick to get the entire family together.” Honoring her, Lathan named their version Nanny’s Seafood Gumbo. The Gumbo Bros. recently began receiving fresh gulf shrimp which, in addition to blue crab, is sure to make Nanny proud. Good ingredients make a dish taste good, but the history of Nanny’s recipe is what’s truly special.

        Much of Cajun culinary wisdom is instilled over a campfire, while away at hunting camps, fishing trips or just exploring the outdoors. In the Delta live grosbecs, mallard ducks, geese, squirrels, rabbits, deer, quails, and wild turkeys. A stick, string, and bait are often all one really needs to catch seafood and shellfish. This is a lifestyle alien to many Americans and is what makes Lathan’s culinary backgrounds so unique. The fruits of the Acadian pantry inform chicken & sausage gumbo; the essence of which the Gumbo Bros. have presented to New Yorkers. Their version, with fresh sage and thyme, is their best selling gumbo.

        These Gulf sensibilities don’t seamlessly transition well into New York life, at least not without hard work. The Gumbo Bros. wouldn’t existed if it weren’t for Lathan’s partner, Clay Boulware. Old college roommates at Louisiana State University, the two reunited in New York. From Alexandria, and raised Southern Baptist, he lived closer to Texas than New Orleans, but as soon as he tasted Lathan’s seafood gumbo he knew it was something special. New York attracts those with an entrepreneurial trait and also has knack of infusing the spirit of commerce into those choose to create outside the marketplace. They made their breakthrough with a stand across from Madison Square Park. This was 2014. For the first month it was just the two of them, doing prep and much of the cooking out of a commissary kitchen in Industry City, finishing the night doing dishes in Lathan’s apartment with enough time to get the little sleep needed not to pass out headfirst into a simmering Dutch oven.

        Before opening their brick and mortar store last year, they had gone all around the city and found representation of the Gulf region severely lacking. That authentic history is hard to find so far up north. Lathan tells me of his relationship with the executive chef of Danny Meyer’s Blue Smoke, Jean-Paul Bourgeois. “Talking about Southern food is just something we as friends do because it’s kinda rare to find someone that kinda cares about it and gives a shit in the city. I guarantee you his family has a different way to do it, a different rule.” Cajun and Creole cooking hadn’t found a home the way other regional and foreign cuisines had.

        Exchanging the toque blanche for a hardhat, they acted as their own general contractor. They hired an interior designer but trusted in themselves more to do the work of transporting the French Quarter to New York themselves. The photos and memorabilia in mismatched frames adorning their walls were directly inspired by The Napoleon House, a building in New Orleans with a history that goes back to French rule. Initially they had grand designs on replicating the tile floor of another part of the French Quarter’s culinary mythos, Arnaud’s, but instead chose Lathan’s father’s storied lumber. Sometimes Lathan gets questions about how they’ve been able to do well in their first year as a brick and mortar restaurant. “Dude, it just reminded them of a good time they’ve had.”

        The decor and the food aren’t the only things that are meant to harken back home. Hospitality and consistency are paramount. “We don’t worry about the food - the food’s good,” says Lathan - even when recipes can’t be faithfully reproduced in the transition from home to the restaurant. In particular, Nanny’s Seafood Gumbo had to be altered. “She used to do bacon based roux, which is insane how good it is, but it's hard to come across that much bacon fat when you're cooking as much as we do.”

        All the standardization of a modern kitchen can’t replicate the consistency of someone who’s been making a dish for 60+ years, but they try. Held up by thick black tape to the white tile walls of their kitchen is a quote by Ligaya Mishan from her New York Times review: “My first encounter went poorly. The bread was stiff and underdressed, the batter on the fried shrimp and catfish seemingly bereft of spice. But the next time, they were glories.” Underneath in bold red type: BE CONSISTENT. You never know who is in the dining room.

        Consistency may be key, but I learned firsthand that with gumbo, a dish that bucks all notions of uniformity, looking for structure goes against its very principles. 1300 miles from the Gulf, I formed a culinary roadmap by bringing together several recipes, both old and new. Guided by tips and tricks I picked up from Lathan, I began to form my gumbo. Despite hours of reading, hearing, and talking to people about what goes into a roux, I’d never seen it made live. No media producer can accurately depict what it’s like to spend 45+ minutes in front of stove. Despite holding a Pyrex measuring cup of vegetable oil in one hand and a glass bowl of measured flour in the other, exact measurements had no place in the kitchen that day. Proceeding with the same caution as a teen recently scared-straight, I never stopped stirring lest I take a long enough break for the roux to take it upon itself to self immolate. Stirring was all about control and Prudhomme be damned, I kept the burner low. Armed only with a long wooden spoon and two Miller High Lifes I swept the surface of the pan, channeling the meticulousness of Tom Sachs in hopes of overcoming my uncertainty. And so I stirred on. In spite of my consistent stirring, after 10 minutes I was sure it had burned - why doesn’t anyone tell you a good roux can smell like burnt popcorn? At one point, I earned a burn on my left forearm by way of a rogue splatter of roux. Reaching the limits of my wingspan, I ran the limb under cold sink water, while my right carried on with its duty as if nothing had happened. I still have the scar.

        I spent 55 minutes in front of the stove. After the initial stress faded my task became one of relaxation and occupation, boredom and relief. Progressions along the color spectrum were gradual: the eggshell white of a béchamel, then wheat, copper, caramel, and gingerbread. When it reached that legendary dutch chocolate beauty I knew I was done. No matter how many age old recipes I bastardized in the process, as I turned of the heat I knew this roux was mine and mine alone.  Having done my diligence, I methodically unloaded my mis-en-place into my roux and let time and heat take over.

        For a restaurant whose raisons d'être lies in the past, the future can be a complicated to envision. Right now, Lathan’s goal is to represent the true ways of his family and all those united by a common love of the region. “We aren’t trying to win Michelin stars. We are trying to make really good quality food and there’s no better compliment than when someone comes back and says ‘I’m from the South and this tastes like my grandmas.’ ” Capturing this nostalgia, only strengthened by distance and fading memories, recently reached its denouement when Eater critic Robert Sietsema named their gumbo one of 15 of the best dishes he’s eaten in 2017. In a few ways, New York embodies the antithesis of the habits, customs, and beliefs of the Gulf. This Cajun-Creole culinary movement, that Lathan and Boulware are spearheading, has largely been resistant to change, but found success in a city built through constant evolution. Reminded of its West African, European, and Native roots, gumbo is springing back into the world while still holding onto home. 

        Southern tides brought Lathan and Nanny’s gumbo onto the shores of the East River with a purpose but in time they will bring him back, leaving behind a culinary marker for future chefs to discover.  “I’ve never been afraid to get up and move,” Lathan says. “I’m southern but for now I’m young, I don’t have children, and can afford to basically not afford to live in New York and have fun and cook here, which as a chef is where you want to be - but I want to go home and eventually I will.”