Eddy Roger P.
Google
Now folks, if you ever wondered what happens when the Good Lord gets a craving for seafood, He probably points His cloud right toward Deanie’s in Bucktown. The place smells like a sermon on butter, garlic, and fried cornmeal—and brother, that’s a religion I can get behind.
Deanie’s has been sittin’ proud since 1961, back when Bucktown was all shrimp boats and stories, and the only traffic jam was a couple of pelicans arguin’ over a bait bucket. John and Alma “Deanie” Livacari started it as a little market by the lake, sellin’ seafood so fresh it probably still had a social life. Then along came the Chifici family in the early ’80s, who turned that humble shack into a full-blown temple of Gulf goodness. They didn’t change the spirit—just gave it a little more room for the faithful to gather.
You walk in today and the air’s thick with crab boil and laughter. The tables are loud, the beer’s cold, and the floor’s got just enough stick to remind you somebody spilled a good time there before you. It’s the kind of joint where “fine dining” means a full basket and a happy heart.
Now about that fried oyster platter—mercy. It comes out lookin’ like Mardi Gras on a plate, a golden mountain that’ll make you forget your cholesterol and your better judgment. No garnish, no pretense, just a pile of oysters so perfectly fried you’ll swear the chef’s got a deal with Poseidon himself. Crunch outside, briny heaven inside, all sittin’ on a mess of fries that exist solely to catch what your napkin can’t.
You drown those oysters in hot sauce, squeeze a little lemon for show, and by the time you’re done, you’ll be leanin’ back in your chair grinnin’ like a man who just got away with somethin’. Deanie’s ain’t just a restaurant—it’s proof the world’s still got a few honest pleasures left.
And when you finally waddle out, belly full and spirit lighter, you’ll find yourself thinkin’ the same thing I did:
“Well, I may not know what heaven looks like, but I sure hope it smells like Deanie’s.”