and have a big cooler and some dry ice …
The neighborhood I live in near Mid-City L.A. used to be (and still is by some, I guess) known as "Little Louisiana" because of the number of transplants from there who arrived in the years just after WWII. It's obvious, walking down some of the residential streets, as the yards and porches just feel like New Orleans, Baton Rouge and other burgs in southern Louisiana.
One of the families who moved here then found an unassuming cinderblock building at the corner of Jefferson Blvd and Victoria Ave. and set up shop making home-style Louisiana sausage — beef and chicken hot links and every once in a while boudin (when someone from back home sends them a tail, they even do gator boudin on special occasions). It's tiny building with a small sign that says, simply, "Pete's Louisiana Style Hot Links" and customers never actually go inside. There's a foyer and an order window. You step up, ring the bell and a guy in a butcher's apron shows up and takes your order, then brings you bags of freshly made (or frozen if you, for example, want chicken links on a day they're making beef ones). You can see the spotless kitchen and the huge walk-in from the order window, hear the grinders working, and watch links getting stuffed, but don't dawdle, because there is usually someone behind you waiting to order theirs. And get there early, because they only stay open until they're sold out of links, and they always sell out. They've been in the same location since 1949 turning out great sausages 7 days a week.
Did I say "great"? This may be an understatement. These are links that have a psychic pull, once you've tasted them. People come surprising distances to stock up. Once, waiting for my turn at the window, I struck up a conversation with the guy in front of me who had a couple of huge coolers with him. He'd driven there from Detroit for a family visit, but said that he always stopped by the shop to pick up 75 pounds or so of links to get him through until the next visit.
Lately, the gentrifiers have been moving into the neighborhood, and they like national chains with shiny, look-alike locations where they can get the same level of mediocrity every time they go. They don't understand Pete's and assume (unrightfully) that it must be unsanitary and is an eyesore. They probably would never try one of the links, not even from L.A. institution Philip's Barbecue, just up Crenshaw Blvd., that's been serving Pete's Links (as have most of the top soul-food and barbecue places in town) for decades. I fear for the future of Pete's, but I fully intend to enjoy it while I can.
Sausage and peppers by George Van Wagner, on Flickr
The neighborhood I live in near Mid-City L.A. used to be (and still is by some, I guess) known as "Little Louisiana" because of the number of transplants from there who arrived in the years just after WWII. It's obvious, walking down some of the residential streets, as the yards and porches just feel like New Orleans, Baton Rouge and other burgs in southern Louisiana.
One of the families who moved here then found an unassuming cinderblock building at the corner of Jefferson Blvd and Victoria Ave. and set up shop making home-style Louisiana sausage — beef and chicken hot links and every once in a while boudin (when someone from back home sends them a tail, they even do gator boudin on special occasions). It's tiny building with a small sign that says, simply, "Pete's Louisiana Style Hot Links" and customers never actually go inside. There's a foyer and an order window. You step up, ring the bell and a guy in a butcher's apron shows up and takes your order, then brings you bags of freshly made (or frozen if you, for example, want chicken links on a day they're making beef ones). You can see the spotless kitchen and the huge walk-in from the order window, hear the grinders working, and watch links getting stuffed, but don't dawdle, because there is usually someone behind you waiting to order theirs. And get there early, because they only stay open until they're sold out of links, and they always sell out. They've been in the same location since 1949 turning out great sausages 7 days a week.
Did I say "great"? This may be an understatement. These are links that have a psychic pull, once you've tasted them. People come surprising distances to stock up. Once, waiting for my turn at the window, I struck up a conversation with the guy in front of me who had a couple of huge coolers with him. He'd driven there from Detroit for a family visit, but said that he always stopped by the shop to pick up 75 pounds or so of links to get him through until the next visit.
Lately, the gentrifiers have been moving into the neighborhood, and they like national chains with shiny, look-alike locations where they can get the same level of mediocrity every time they go. They don't understand Pete's and assume (unrightfully) that it must be unsanitary and is an eyesore. They probably would never try one of the links, not even from L.A. institution Philip's Barbecue, just up Crenshaw Blvd., that's been serving Pete's Links (as have most of the top soul-food and barbecue places in town) for decades. I fear for the future of Pete's, but I fully intend to enjoy it while I can.
Sausage and peppers by George Van Wagner, on Flickr
