The menu at the Cabin was long, one
of those unwieldy, laminated mega-menus that grace the tables of
roadside diners and chalets everywhere, and reflected a classic
attention to theme (gumbo burger, gumbo omelet, gumbo). If the menu had
been covered in tinfoil, I would’ve had a late-summer tan by the time I
reached the dessert page. When our waiter approached, I asked — in what I
imagined was a small act of clever, Yankee defiance — if the gumbo was
any good.
My friend Gabbie and I had come directly from a tour of a former sugar plantation down the road, in Vacherie, La., called Oak Alley,
and I had a crook in my neck. Up until that morning, whenever I heard
the word “plantation,” I’d thought “slavery.” When I’d booked the tour, I
had done so in the spirit of a visitor to Dachau or Wounded Knee.
But
the tour itself was given in the spirit of a visit to the home of a
tasteful, Southern movie star. Our guide, in a tone equal parts admiring
and envious, devoted 90 minutes to the armoires, linens and chamber
pots of the home, but almost no time to the people who built, creased
and cleaned them. The words “slave” and “slavery” were never mentioned.
“I
guess the white people in antebellum drag getting misty about ‘the
Golden Age of the South’ might have been our first clue,” Gabbie
observed. READ MORE
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