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    TATTERED JEANS

    Oil pain seeps into the radio and an escape to a green slime wonder home

    Katie Oxford
    Jul 21, 2010 | 10:12 pm
    • It's hard to believe this beauty is so close to so much devastation.
      Katie Oxford
    • Some things, you have to stop and take a picture of.
      Katie Oxford
    • Raymond and Anna Mae Dupre have been married for 63 years.
      Katie Oxford
    • The picture wall on Anna Mae Dupre's home says a lot.
      Katie Oxford
    • Nature isn't far from the house.
      Katie Oxford
    • Curtis, Raymond and Anna Mae Dupre on the front porch.
      Katie Oxford

    Editor's note: Katie Oxford is on the ground and in the boats in Louisiana, reporting from the heart of the Gulf oil spill disaster. This is the fifth of her columns from the scene.

    Driving along highway 665 toward Montegut, La., I turned on the radio, still tuned to a station (WWL) I’d been listening to for nearly a week. The morning before, the topic had been the public’s negative perception of Gulf seafood. In other words, was it OK to eat? To this announcer at least, the answer was not only yes, but hell yes!

    He was irate with one “Luby’s” restaurant in Houston where a sign was displayed stating that none of their catch was from the Gulf but rather “northern regions, including Iceland and Alaska.” I know this last part by heart because he repeated these words like someone reciting the Rosary.

    On this morning, however, the announcer was subdued and reverent. He had the mayor of Grand Isle on the line — David Camardelle — and clearly, this mayor loved his city and its citizens deeply.

    For a moment, the mayor wanted to put aside booms and berms — and turn to the youngsters in his community who typically this time of year were swimming and doing what kids usually like to do. This was no typical summer. Inside or out.

    “They see their parents looking worried and then they start worrying,” the mayor said. “Their parents are trying to tell them everything’s gonna be OK … these kids need something to do!”

    Mayor Camardelle, with the help of others, had set up a summer program for these youngsters that also put them on a payroll — thereby helping the kids and therefore parents. As the mayor explained what kind of work these kids actually performed — his voice changed.

    “You know what we really do with these kids?” he told the announcer, “We just keep tellin’ em’ … it’s gonna get betta … it’s gonna get betta…”

    Like the announcer had the day before, the mayor repeated these words again and again, only eventually for the mayor, his heart gave and he broke into tears. You just knew this was one tough guy with broad shoulders who seldom, if ever, cried. Carrying such enormous weight through a storm now 93 days old and no doubt sleep deprived to boot — who wouldn’t? The guy needed a break. I let up on the accelerator a little and cried with him.

    Finding the green slime

    About 10 miles farther down the road, I saw something in the ditches that my friend Robert Smith had talked about a few days earlier. “I’m going to call it something not correctly,” he warned, “but I call it green slime. You talk about the food chain now … this is the stuff that feeds all of us starting from the bottom up! What happens when that’s gone?” he wondered, “and no one’s talking about it!”

    I pulled to the side of the road and got down in a ditch with my camera. After firing off a few shots of the green slime, gorgeous in color, my eyes wandered across the road to an area of oak trees just beyond a little brick house. I turned into the driveway and inched forward until the pavement ended.

    I thought I’d come to heaven on earth. Certainly for herons. Their slender bodies stood gracefully throughout the open green space, pointing upward like miniature church steeples. I cut the engine, left the door ajar and crept closer with my camera, trying not to disturb them. A few frames into it, a woman walked out the back door of the brick house wearing socks the color of the green slime I’d just studied.

    “I’m sorry,” I said quickly, “I should have knocked first … but I wanted to get a picture of these herons before they flew off.” “While they’re still white,” I wanted to add.

    “You can get a gun and shoot em’ if you want to,” she said. Then she smiled. “No … not the herons.”

    I could have spent the day with Anna Mae Dupre and almost did. She’s country folk with a heart seemingly as big as her oak trees. Her accent was from another world and I often had to ask her to repeat things. “I’ll give you my accent (thoroughly southeast Texas) if you’ll give me yours,” I offered. Her laugh sounded like a combination of wind chimes and that of a child’s.

    Her husband Raymond mosied out the back door and sat down gently next to Anna Mae, now seated in a swing. Seconds later, their son, Curtis, peddled up on a bicycle that to my delight, had both a bell and a basket.

    We talked about their brick house built in 1973, the oaks they planted in 1948, an important date coming up — their 63rd wedding anniversary on July 6. Curtis remained silent, sitting on the swing with one arm draped behind his papa and keeping his eyes on me as if thinking, “What exactly are you up to, lady?”

    That is, until somehow we got on the subject of pirogues, a canoe like boat also called a “dugout” made for one person.

    “Curtis has a pirogue,” Mr. Dupre said, “built in 1901.”

    “It was built from one piece of wood,” Curtis added, “from a cypress tree.”

    “If you want, we can go get it,” Mr. Dupre offered kindly, “Curtis just lives across the street.”

    “No wonder he’d looked at me suspiciously,” I thought. Some ragamuffin blonde out front, nose down in his ditch taking photographs of green slime.

    Anna Mae, however, wanted to do something else. Taking my arm, she said, “Come see my pictures.”

    A break from the oil

    Entering their home was as pleasant as dipping your bare feet in a summer stream. It felt cool and refreshing. We walked through her spotlessly-clean kitchen to the living room, where Anna Mae pointed to photographs hanging on wood walls. Tons of them. Pictures of their four children, seven grandchildren, four great grandchildren and ones of her and Raymond celebrating three wedding anniversaries in particular … in 1947, 1950 and 1962.

    As we walked back through her kitchen I told her how good her house felt.

    “Well, you know,” she said, “Father Thomas wanted to come over and bless it. I told Raymond it was OK with me. You know,” she chuckled, moving closer, “when Father Thomas walked out the door he said ‘there’s nothin’ wrong in this house’.”

    “Sure feels that way to me,” I smiled.

    There was something else refreshing too. For one whole hour, no one had uttered a word about oil or the countless forms of suffering taking place. As with other times during my trip to Louisiana, it was a moment to mark.

    I backed out slowly from their driveway feeling my heart warmed; that that brick house was as sturdy as the woman of it; and that green slime and mama’s like Anna Mae Dupre … feeds all of us.

    When I called Anna Mae a few days ago to wish her a happy belated anniversary, she sounded glad.

    “I think of you every time I see one of these egrets,” she called them.

    I asked her if they’d enjoyed themselves on their anniversary, and with her Anna Mae accent she answered.

    “We’re ready for another one, honey,” she said with laughter of a child’s.

    Other articles in Katie's Oxford's Louisiana series:

    At the Gulf's beside

    Let's do the hustle

    An unexpectedly grave concern

    The little girl in the church


    unspecified
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    CULTUREMAP EMAILS ARE AWESOME
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    wine guy Wednesday

    Chris Shepherd recommends pulling into a food lovers' paradise in San Antonio

    Chris Shepherd
    May 7, 2025 | 5:07 pm
    Pullman Market exterior
    Photo by Robert Jacob Lerma
    Find Pullman Market in the Pearl Brewery complex.

    Is there a grocery store worth driving three hours for? Absolutely, and it’s worth staying a day or two to fully understand it.

    I’ve known the crew at Emmer & Rye Hospitality Group for a while now — chef Kevin Fink, his wife Ali Fink, and pastry chef Tavel Bristol-Joseph are the ones I talk to the most — and every time they open something new, I’m blown away. It’s not just the concepts; it’s how they treat their team and the energy they bring as human beings. They’re just good people doing things the right way.

    So when my wife Lindsey and I planned a quick trip to San Antonio, we made it a point to check out their latest project: Pullman Market at the historic Pearl Brewery. I’ve known about this thing for a few years now, but let me be real — when they first told me about it, I didn’t get it. These are the folks behind some of Austin’s best restaurants — Emmer & Rye, Hestia, Canje, Ezov — so when they mentioned expanding to San Antonio, I thought, "Cool, another restaurant." Then Kevin walked me up to this massive, empty building — 40,000 square feet — and said, “This is going to be Pullman Market.” And he gave me that look, you know the one: the long stare where he’s clearly seeing the future, and I’m standing there like, “You’ve officially lost your mind.”

    But here’s the thing — Kevin and the team had a plan. I didn’t need to know the whole vision; I just knew it’d be good.

    Fast forward three years, and boom — Pullman Market finally opened in April 2024. I intentionally stayed away from any press or previews because I love a good grocery store (you can often find me aimlessly wandering H-E-B or Central Market), and I wanted to experience this one fresh.

    We met up with Kevin, Ali, and their son Hudson outside the market. From the moment I walked in, I knew this wasn’t just a grocery store. First stop: produce. My jaw hit the floor. Almost everything is from Texas — peaches, melons, heirloom tomatoes, a rainbow of peppers. It’s a love letter to Texas farms.

    Then we hit the ice cream bar, and things got wild. They use milk from Oro Blanco, a local cow’s milk dairy, which gives the ice cream this rich, velvety texture. I tried a salted cream flavor that tasted like cream cheese with just a whisper of salt. Then came chocolate. Then came a chicken and waffle ice cream — yes, made with chicken stock. Then a lime leaf one that was bright and punchy. And we’d barely made it 10 feet inside.

    Past the coffee bar and the rotisserie — where chickens spin over trays of potatoes soaking up every last drop of drippings — you hit the bakery. Breads, cookies, pastries made all day, every day. Then across the way are, and I don’t say this lightly, some of the best flour tortillas in Texas. Made from locally grown Sonoran wheat and the rendered lard from local Berkshire pork and Tallow from Texas beef from the butcher shop. Grab a few dozen. Thank me later.

    The seafood and meat departments are top-tier. The seafood is pristine. The ceviche bar proves that in one bite. Then, there's the butcher counter, where everything’s whole-animal and dry-aged in-house. I’ve worked with whole animals before — this place is the real deal. Wagyu, Angus, pork, lamb, chicken, dry-aged steaks, house-cured meats. It’s a playground. You can even grab a burger or bratwurst right next door at Burgers by the Butcher.

    Pantry goods? Thoughtful. From housemade pastas to chips, canned goods, and a wine room that’ll make your inner wine geek do cartwheels.

    The situation gets even better when you consider the restaurants at Pullman. Having all that produce, meat, seafood, and bread under one roof means they can rotate ingredients through every concept. Whole animal butchery just makes sense here. You see it in action.

    We ate at Mezquite, which highlights Sonoran-style Mexican cuisine. The menu pulls straight from the market — crudos, squash dishes riffing on queso, tacos, and something called a caramelo that’s basically the best quesadilla you’ve ever had. The tortillas are stars. Corn for chips and tostadas, and that incredible flour version for everything else. I went back the next day to stock up.

    Next up was Fife & Farro — pizza and pasta. The mozzarella’s made in-house from water buffalo milk and served just warm enough to hold together. Paired with pesto and sungold tomatoes? Unreal. When the cheese firms up, it goes on their wood-fired pizzas with perfectly fermented dough. Pasta’s made steps away in the pasta shop. Whether you buy some to take home or post up at the bar for a plate of alla vodka with penne and Calabrian chile, it’s all fire.

    Then, we made a choice. The best kind of choice. Dinner was a double header: Nicosi, the 20-seat, dessert tasting bar, and Isidore, their live fire, steakhouse-style concept.

    At Nicosi, they cover your phone with a sticker and ask you to just be present. No pics, no texts. Just be here. The tasting explores sweet, savory, bitter, acidic — it’s not just chocolate and sugar. Tavel’s mind is wild, and the team brings it to life in a way that makes you pause. I’m not spoiling the menu. You’ve got to walk that path yourself.

    Then on to Isidore. The smell of wood smoke greets you before you sit down. The kitchen’s fueled by whatever’s freshest from the market. One day it’s tomatoes, the next it’s lamb. Meat gets butchered steps away. It’s this beautiful loop — everything feeds into everything else, and it works.

    Pullman Market isn’t just a market. It’s not just restaurants. It’s a living, breathing ecosystem run by people who actually know what they’re doing. It’s disciplined, it’s thoughtful, and it’s damn inspiring. Kevin, Tavel, and the entire team — what they’ve built is like nothing I’ve seen before.

    I hope one day Houston gets a Pullman Market. Until then, I’ll pack a cooler, head to San Antonio, and load up on tortillas, meats, butter, and pasta. I’ll stay at Hotel Emma, because I’ll definitely need another meal — or three — before I head home.

    Congratulations on a very successful first year of Pullman Market!

    -----

    Looking for more San Antonio recommendations? Ask Chris for his favorites via email at chris@chrisshepherd.is.

    Pullman Market exterior
      

    Photo by Robert Jacob Lerma

    Find Pullman Market in the Pearl Brewery complex.

    Chris Shepherd won a James Beard Award for Best Chef: Southwest in 2014. The Southern Smoke Foundation, a nonprofit he co-founded with his wife Lindsey Brown, has distributed more than $11 million to hospitality workers in crisis through its Emergency Relief Fund. Catch his TV show, Eat Like a Local, every Saturday at 10 am on KPRC Channel 2.

    chefsgrocery storeskevin finknews-you-can-eatpullman markettavel bristoljoseph
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