Not many places handle as many different demographics as Crooked Bayou. Monday through Friday, the office crowd can get a quick lunch. In the early evening, it's a quiet dinner date spot. After 10 p.m., DJs spin (mostly) various flavors of house. For the late-nighters, Crooked Bayou's kitchen runs a limited menu until 2 a.m.
You can sit outside along Central Avenue, inside where the bar is decorated to resemble a swamp camp, or in the middle ground that can either be called a covered courtyard or the hallway that leads back to Cairo. If a DJ isn't playing, the default music is college retro (Depeche Mode, The Cure, Talking Heads).
Scoping: What type of boys and girls you'll find at Crooked Bayou depends on when you go. The lunch crowd isn't going to have time to chat. Early in the evening, it's mostly young couples. Later at night and on weekends, it's the hipster crowd. Just pick the right night for your musical tastes.
Drinking: Crooked Bayou has one of the better-stocked liquor bars I've seen downtown. Three different lines of flavored vodkas, six bourbons, six scotches, six rums and a dozen bottles of Jagermeister waiting in reserve. I spotted a bottle of a “Creole” liqueur and the bartender gave me a free taste. Basically, it's a spicier Grand Marnier that would work well in a margarita.
Wine drinkers have about a dozen choices by the glass ($5-7). Beer drinkers can choose from six on tap or twenty in bottles. Since this is a Louisiana-themed place and they're only $3, you should try something from Abita Brewing, just outside New Orleans. I've always liked Turbodog, a brown ale that's crisper than most.
Chewing: I started off with an appetizer that could be classified as “vegetarian,” but certainly not “health food.” Hot tots ($6) are Tater Tots, doused with hot wing and blue cheese dressing on the side. I could really see floating a layer of these on top of a belly of Turbodog at about 1:45 a.m., but there's no way to finish a plate solo. Even if you're somehow hungry enough, shame would kick in about halfway through the platter.
A big chunk of Crooked Bayou menu is po' boy sandwiches. Let's start traditional. The shoyster ($6.50 for six inches, $9 for twelve) puts breaded and fried shrimp and oysters on French bread with lettuce, mayo and cocktail sauce. You also get potato chips and a pickle.
The oysters are moist if a little small. The shrimp, firm and flavorful. What let me down a bit was the quantity of filling. Traditionally, New Orleans po' boys are overflowing. Here, it's all carefully laid out in a single layer without one bit of fried seafood on top of another. Of course, it's also easy to drop double the price on a true Crescent City sandwich. Just know what you're getting going in and the shoyster is not a bad deal for the price.
The six-inch BBQ po' boy ($6) comes hot with cheddar cheese and your choice of smoked turkey, pork or roast beef. I had the beef. A fine sandwich, though nothing memorable. It’s certainly better than what you’d get at a chain sub shop.
Who could resist ordering a sandwich called The Muff ($6 for six inches)? It’s Crooked Bayou’s adaptation of the traditional muffuletta. In the original, cold meats and cheeses are topped with a green olive dressing and pressed under a weight . The Muff is served hot -- ham, salami, Swiss and provolone cheeses pressed like a Cuban sandwich with olive dressing and brown mustard. I like it. It’s a hearty variation on the Reuben. Just don’t get your tongue set for a true muffuletta, because that’s not what you’ll get.
On the crayfish salad ($8.50), you get your choice of fried or Cajun-spiced mudbugs (my pick) atop romaine lettuce, mandarin orange wedges, candied pecans and blue cheese with vinaigrette on the side. The crawdads are spicy and the salad is bright and crisp but together, they cancel each other out. My guess is that the crispy fried mini-lobster tails are a better match.
Since I've been grousing about semi-authentic items like The Muff and the shoyster, I want to make sure and mention a couple items that are just right. The chicken and sausage gumbo ($3 cup, $5.75 bowl and jalapeño cornbread) is thick and browned with peppery heat on both the tip and back of your tongue. The jambalaya (same prices) still has a tomato brightness that gets past the andouille sausage.
Going: Crooked Bayou's toilets aren't in the restaurant proper, but down the hall near Cairo. I started to take the key, attached to something big like at a gas station so you won't accidentally steal it, but the waitress promised the door was unlocked. The urinal dividers are built very solid, as if the carpenter expected drunken fools to lean on them for help with our aim.
Departing: Lunch, dinner, a late-night nosh and alcohol – if Crooked Bayou just started serving Captain Crunch, you could live there.
