The New York Times Living Magazine
MEET BOUDIN, THE SAUSAGE KING OF CAJUN COUNTRY.
PAULA DISBROWE DIGS IN.
Published: May 7,2007

Late last spring, I traveled to southwestern Louisiana to accompany Donald Link, the chef at Herbsaint in New Orleans, on a research trip: he was planning to open a restaurant, Cochon, in the warehouse district that fall. As the name (French for “pig”) suggests, Cochon would be devoted to pork, as well as to authentic Cajun cuisine.  Not that blackened stuff, Link grumbled.

Link planned to feature boudin, a sausage not widely known outside its region, on his new menu.  Preserved by a diminishing number of sausage makers, the best boudin could be found in a sparsely populated area west of the city.  “The weird thing is that even in New Orleans, not that many people know what boudin is or how to eat it,” Link said.  He was poised to change all that. A native of nearby Lake Charles and a descendant of the tiny German community of Robert’s Cove, he has sausage in his DNA, you might say. And for crying out loud, his name is Link.

Three months later, Hurricane Katrina devastated the region and altered the fate of both Link and boudin- but not in way you might expect.

At the time of our trip, Link was stretched thin, running Herbsaint, juggling architects and investors for Cochon, and seeking inspiration for his new menu. But when we crossed the Atchafalyaya swamp on a sunny spring afternoon – Link’s wife, Amanda and his 5-year-old daughter, Cassidy in tow- his mood brightened, especially after we picked up some cold beer and a grease-soaked bag of cracklins (chewy cubes of pigskin and ham that are fried, salted and spiced, and sold by the pound).  “Now we’re in Cajun country, he said as he reached for the radio and cranked up the band Kings of Leon.  Cassidy threw back the cracklins as happily as another child might eat raisins.  They were just an amuse for boudin.

For most of the carnivorous world, the word “boudin” (pronounced boo-DAN) registers as a French take on sausage, as in boudin blanc, a pale pork-and-chicken sausage, and boudin noir, its darker, earthier sibling, made with blood.  But along this swamp-rimmed stretch of Route I-10, in a land where most gas stations sell andouille sausage, tasso ham, hog-head cheese and smoked pig stomach, boudin has meant just one thing: sausage made with pork, rice, onion, black pepper and cayenne.  Here, boudin has customarily been eaten all day long, with enthusiasm.  Before Katrina, it was as common as cornflakes for breakfast. On deli menus, boudin balls (sausage rounds dredged in breadcrumbs and fried) were listed before ham and roast beef.\

Boudin is made mostly from various cuts of pork, including shoulder, neck, and feet.  Traditional recipes include liver, which gives it a gamier taste, but these days that’s a matter of preference and popular demand. “There’s got to be a balance,” Link said. “Liver is like anchovies: if you do it just right, people who don’t like liver will say, ‘This is awesome!’” To make the standard version, the meat is simmered until tender and then coarsely ground.  It is then combined with cooked rice and the aforementioned seasonings and can be mixed by hand or ground a second time.  The resulting mixture is either rolled into balls and fried or pumped into casings, then poached or smoked.

Boudin is not a meal; it’s a snack, and not a particularly neat or portable one.  To eat fresh, hot boudin, you bite into the link and you use your teeth and fingers to gently pull the meat out of its soft casing. You can also slice it and tease out the meat with a fork, though utensils are not required. Some locals eat boudin with a dab of Creole mustard, drizzle of cane syrup, a French roll or a few crackers, but most feel that it, like a few of life’s illicit pleasures, is best enjoyed in the heat of the moment, eaten straight from the wrapper while sitting in one’s car.  This is not a region known for its pretension: it is fondly said that a Cajun seven-course meal is a pound of boudin and a six- pack of beer.

As explained on “The Boudin Trail,” a feature on Lafayette Parish’s Web site (www.lafayettetravel.com), the most beloved destinations are grocery stores and meat markets.  For years before Katrina hit, busloads of boudin enthusiasts descended upon these mom-and-pop establishments. We were headed for two days of such detours. At Best Stop Supermarket in Scott, the sausages were reddish-orange from a generous amount of paprika and red. The warm rice and pork melded into a spicy, satisfying bite.  At a gas station in Henderson, we shopped for boudin balls and more beer.  But we paced ourselves for a crawfish dinner at Hawk’s, a restaurant nestled in rice fields outside Rayne.

The next morning we hit the Mowata Store in Mowata, which is owned by Link’s cousin Bubba Frey.  Former mainstays of Cajun cooking could be behind the buildings- cages of doves and pigeons, and barrels of snapping turtles destined for gumbo. Frey’s deep freezer was filled with an impressive array of game. “It’s getting to where no one knows how to clean turtle,” Frey said with a sigh. “The people who used to eat turtle with me are in the cemetery.” His boudin was the best we tasted, clean and peppery, with plenty of rice.

Afterward, we refreshed ourselves at Fred’s Lounge in Mamou, where people had been drinking and dancing to the live Zydeco broadcast since early morning. “When I grew up here, I thought it was like anywhere else,” Link said between swings of beer. “When I left, I realized that there isn’t any other place like it.” Then we drove to Spots Corner, a meat market and grocery in Elton, to sample warm, crisp boudin balls. “I’m definitely going to serve these as appetizers because they’re easy to eat.” Link said.

At our final stop, a crawfish festival in Breaux Bridge, we were joined by Steve Stryjewski, who would become Links chef and partner at Cochon. When the two chefs bit into a Cajun pistolette, a fried bread roll stuffed with shrimp, crawfish and cheese, they nodded in silent admiration, as if to say, “Definitely going on the menu.”

Once back in New Orleans, it was up to Link to translate this simple and sensual regional food for an urban restaurant. He was undeterred. “Sometimes I struggle coming up with new stuff for Herbsaint,” Link confessed, “but I could write six Cochon menus a day.”

After Katrina, I feared that Link would cut his losses, and that the tiny population of boudin producers might disperse. How could they survive? Not all of them did, though all the stops on our trip were spared. Bus tours and sausage tourists are rare these days, but the demand for boudin has not dipped. According to Floyd Poche, the owner of Poche’s Market in Breaux Bridge (which ships boudin through www.pochesmarket.com), customers still drive from as far away as Houston. “We were very fortunate that we didn’t get hit,” added Karen, his wife and partner. “Our sales have actually increased because people that have relocated to Texas are requesting that stores stock it.”

Link’s path was rockier. He lost his house in the storm, Herbsaint was closed for over a month, and Cochon didn’t open until just a few weeks ago.
“I’d planned to open in what was a very tourist-oriented neighborhood,” Link said recently, “but he storm has condensed the city, and a lot of locals have moved into this part of town.” Ironically, boudin might have its largest audience yet.  “It’s more important than ever to serve food that has the character of the region,” he said, not just po’ boys and red beans.”
For a classic boudin recipe, go to www.nytimes.com/stylemagazine.