How Tourists Ate In New Orleans Cafés During The 1970s (And Why It Shocked Locals)
In 1970s New Orleans, cafés weren’t just about food — they were stages where locals and wide-eyed tourists collided in unforgettable ways.
Visitors eager to taste the city’s famous beignets, chicory coffee, and po’ boys often stumbled into cultural faux pas that left locals amused, horrified, or both.
From powdered-sugar photo shoots to mispronounced menu items, the café scene of that era became a lively clash of tradition versus curiosity — and the stories still make New Orleanians smile today.
Camera-Wielding Beignet Massacres
Nothing made a local’s eye twitch faster than watching tourists murder perfectly good beignets for the sake of Kodak moments. These powdered sugar-dusted pillows of heaven were meant to be devoured immediately, not photographed from seventeen angles!
My uncle Pierre once watched a man in socks and sandals hold up an entire café line to stage a beignet photoshoot. The poor pastry got cold while the tourist arranged his Mardi Gras beads around the plate. Meanwhile, the café staff exchanged those classic New Orleans looks that silently communicated, “Bless their hearts.”
Locals knew proper beignet etiquette meant eating quickly, breathing carefully, and accepting that your black shirt would become a powdered crime scene. Tourists treated them like alien artifacts requiring scientific documentation.
Coffee Confusion That Bordered On Sacrilege
“I’ll have a regular coffee, please” – words that could get you labeled an outsider faster than you could say Mississippi. Our chicory coffee wasn’t just a beverage; it was liquid religion!
Watching tourists wrinkle their noses at the first sip of our robust chicory brew brought me endless entertainment as a kid. Some would secretly dump in six sugar packets when they thought nobody was watching. Others would ask for cream with wide, desperate eyes, clearly unprepared for the bold, earthy assault on their taste buds.
The greatest offense? Tourists who loudly complained about the “burnt taste” or asked if there was “regular American coffee” available. The café matrons would smile sweetly while mentally adding another name to their voodoo prayer list.
The Great Po’ Boy Pronunciation Catastrophe
Y’all wouldn’t believe the creative ways tourists butchered “po’ boy” back then! I’ve heard everything from “poo boy” to “poor boy sandwich” delivered with complete confidence to unimpressed servers.
The real shocker came when visitors would cut these sacred sandwiches with knives and forks. My grandfather nearly fainted when he witnessed a woman in white gloves delicately dissecting her oyster po’ boy with silverware. The proper technique – grabbing that monster with both hands and accepting the delicious mess – seemed foreign to tourists who’d try to maintain their dignity.
Even worse were the special requests: “Can I get this without the bread?” or “Is there a low-calorie version?” Questions that would earn you the special kind of Southern shade that feels like hospitality but leaves emotional bruises.
Rush Hour During The Sacred Lunch Hour
Tourists treated lunch like a pit stop. Locals knew better – our midday meal was practically a religious experience requiring proper reverence and at least 90 minutes!
Summer afternoons in 1970s New Orleans meant watching visitors frantically wave for checks while locals settled in for another round of storytelling and coffee. My aunt Josephine could stretch a single cup of coffee and half a muffuletta into a three-hour social event. Meanwhile, tourists would anxiously check watches, gulp down food, and miss the entire point of New Orleans dining.
The worst offenders were businessmen with briefcases who’d bark orders into early mobile phones between bites. Café owners developed a special skill – the art of deliberately slow service for rushed customers. “The check? Oh honey, what’s your hurry? Have another beignet first!”
Menu Mispronunciations That Made Servers Wince
“I’ll have the… jam-ba-laya?” Oh, the creative linguistics tourists brought to our café tables! Nothing entertained locals more than hearing our culinary treasures mangled beyond recognition.
My favorite café had a waiter who kept a secret tally of the worst pronunciation offenders. The champion was a gentleman from Minnesota who ordered “etouf-FAY” while pointing confidently at the étouffée. The poor server had to excuse himself to laugh in the kitchen. Another classic was “moof-a-lotta” for muffuletta, which somehow became the café’s unofficial nickname for tourists.
Some savvy visitors would simply point to menu items rather than risk verbal humiliation. Others would attempt our accent, creating bizarre food-ordering performances that sounded more Transylvanian than Louisianan. We didn’t mind the mistakes – but the loud, over-enunciated attempts hurt our souls.
Inappropriate Hot Sauce Applications
Tourists treated hot sauce like ketchup – slathering it on everything without discrimination or respect for the chef’s intentions. I once watched a man from Ohio dump Crystal hot sauce on bread pudding!
The hot sauce bottle dance became a tourist identifier. They’d grab every bottle on the table, examining each like ancient artifacts before dousing perfectly seasoned gumbo with three different varieties. Meanwhile, locals knew exactly which sauce paired with which dish – a knowledge earned through generations of culinary wisdom.
Most horrifying was watching visitors apply hot sauce before tasting the food. My grandmother would mutter prayers under her breath witnessing such blasphemy. The unspoken rule was simple: taste first, then season if needed. Tourists operated under the assumption that hotter automatically meant more authentic, creating flavor combinations that would make a seasoned chef weep.
The Great Crawfish Confrontation
Lord have mercy, nothing revealed a tourist faster than their first crawfish encounter! I’ve witnessed grown men stare helplessly at a pile of mudbugs like they’d been served alien lifeforms.
The classic tourist move was attempting to use utensils – a cardinal sin that would earn pitying glances from every local in sight. My father once offered to demonstrate proper technique to a bewildered family from Michigan. Their horrified faces as he twisted heads from tails and sucked the juices from the shells still makes me laugh decades later.
Some visitors would pick daintily at the tail meat while discarding the flavorful head – essentially missing the entire point of the experience. Others would give up entirely, pushing away barely-touched plates. The true mark of a tourist? Clean fingernails after a crawfish boil. No self-respecting local would emerge without battle scars of spice under their nails.