Eddy Roger P.
Google
Alright y’all, let me tell ya about a little Uptown joint that’s so local, even the pigeons out front look like they’re on the payroll. It’s called Adams Street Grocery & Deli, sittin’ pretty at 1309 Adams Street—right there where the oak trees lean in like they’re tryin’ to catch a whiff of what’s cookin’. From the sidewalk, it don’t look like much—just a corner store with a faded sign and a screen door that squeaks like it’s got opinions. But step inside, and baby, you’ve just walked into the Church of the Holy Po-Boy.
Now, this ain’t one of them tourist traps with napkins folded up like swans. No, sir. This is a workin’-man’s paradise, where the regulars know your order and the counter folks move with the confidence of people who’ve never made a bad sandwich in their lives. They’ve got more po-boys than you can shake a Zapp’s bag at—fried shrimp, roast beef, hot sausage, ham and cheese—and they’ll hand it to you wrapped up tight in white paper, still warm, like a little miracle you can eat. That smell of butter and fry oil hits you square in the chest and makes you wonder why you ever wasted time on kale.
Ain’t no tables inside, so you gotta take that po-boy somewhere proper to enjoy it. I like to head down to Audubon Park—just me, a brown paper bundle, and a good breeze. Those big ol’ oaks been standin’ there since before air conditioning, watchin’ folks picnic, fall in love, and occasionally feed the ducks too much bread. So I plop down under one, unwrap that sandwich, and suddenly life makes sense again. The ham’s stacked high, the cheese is melted just enough to flirt, and that Leidenheimer bread—Lord, that bread—crusty on the outside, soft as Sunday mornin’ on the inside.
You take that first bite and time slows down. The ducks stop quackin’, the breeze hushes up, and you realize that somehow, someway, the best meal in New Orleans came from a corner store with a squeaky door. Adams Street Grocery don’t need fame or fuss—it’s just good folks makin’ good food, one po-boy at a time. And if that ain’t holy work, I don’t know what is.