The Chef [antikvár]

CHAPTER 1 "GIMME TWO scoops, three waddles, and a shake!" Marlene is standing a few feet away from me, yelling out the next order because of the damn noise. Like the clanging of the manhole-sized skillet I'm using to sauté a fresh heap of diced onions, celery, and bell peppers. The popping and crackling of our deep fryer, louder than hail on a tin roof. The roar of the exhaust fan, straining to suck out all the smoke. And that's just inside our sweltering little food truck. Outside, a line of hungry customers stretching twice around the block is starting to get rowdy, yelling out encouragement and menu demands. Midday traffic with its engines and horns is rumbling up and down Canal Street, along with rattling trolley cars. And seemingly out of nowhere, a five-person roving brass jazz band has appeared on the corner, blaring a toe-tapping tune, causing some in line to snap photos with their phones to preserve yet another memory of their trip to this enchanted place. A collision of food, music, history, passion, chaos .yep, that pretty much sums up New Orleans for you. "Nawlins," as us locals say it. NOLA. The Crescent City The Big Easy Different names for the same magical, one-of-a-kind place. My hometovm