The Soup That Was Lost When Franklin’s Grill was Hurricane Katrina Destroyed Franklin’s Grill
Gone but not forgotten
By Brooke Duplantier
It was a large room in a large tan building in a strip mall of sorts, with neon pink letters against a green backdrop that read “Franklin’s Grill” which I sometimes called “Tony’s Grill” by accident.
In this large room at Franklin’s Grill stood a large man at the center. He was always dressed nicely, and sometimes he was my dad. Blue polo shirt, khaki pants, brown Sperrys. Just about everyone in this room was quite large, and in this large room, I felt both that no one could see me and that every movement I made was on display. Next to the large man at the room’s front and center, was an even larger American flag. I was afraid this flag would fall on me, wrapping me up in its folds and knocking me out with the shiny gold stand. A Kiwanis club flag stood next to it. First everyone placed their hands on their hearts for the pledge, then stood standing to recite the Kiwanis creed.
Finally, we’d all get to sit. Except for the waitresses in their half, dark green aprons, that would move between people, pausing out of respect, and discreetly jotting down orders on their little notepads. The adult meeting blurred into the background with the large man at the center speaking about their community programs. I’m one of the kids served by these programs, but in this space, the adults tune me out as I do them. My little sister Maggie and I begin playing our pass-the-time-game, as our feet swing wildly under the table.
I grab the little white box across the table and find my favorite sugar packets. I open the bright pretty pink, Sweet’n Low and pour the white sugar out onto the paper napkins I laid on the table in front of us. Sweet’n Low sugar is the sweetest and the softest sugar of the packets, with a taste of being almost “too sweet,” if there is such a thing. Maggie and I are experts on the sugar selection, having tried them all plenty of times before. We draw within the sugar, making little circles, swirls, and our initials with our small fingers as if creating angels in snow. Every now and then, I lick my fingers until eventually all of my sugar painting is gone. I’m all sweetened up. Then, just for fun, and because I think I taste the difference, I pour some Sweet’n Low into my Coke, (1–2 packets) and stir it in real nice.
And just before we descend into that distinct boredom of when you’re little and every day is summer, the food arrives. This time, I’d convinced my dad that I was big enough for the big bowl of soup, the corn, and crawfish seafood bisque. The golden bisque that if left too long would develop a slight film that I could break into with my spoon and start a fresh scoop all over again. The pieces of crawfish would float to the surface, as patterned red and white islands in a sea. And the corn! The one vegetable I couldn't resist. There could never be enough corn. To top it all off, I dip in the table saltine crackers letting them sit and get soggy in their hot bath. I break other crackers into tiny bites and eat with them each scoop. The more I play, the better the soup tastes. This was my reward for sitting quietly for an hour and a half. Every Tuesday my parents dragged my sister and me along, I would order nothing else but that same soup. Once I had the soup, all else was forgiven.
More than a decade of soups later, and I still crave the taste of Franklin’s Grill soup. The soup was lost when Franklin’s Grill was destroyed in Hurricane Katrina and never reopened. The tan building was repainted white and rebuilt into a dancing school in the strip mall. Each time I order a crawfish and corn bisque, I hope that by some grace of God, it will be the same recipe as Franklin’s Grill. The warm, golden soup in the big bowl, in the tan building, where I would sit next to my mom, dad, and sister, never thinking that these things could change.
