“Here’s how it goes, cher: you bring the groceries, I bring the fire. You pick the meats, the veggies, the seasonin’—whatever your heart’s set on. I show up with my black pot, my paddle, and a whole lotta know-how passed down from the old folks .we set up in your kitchen, turn it into a bayou bistro You get a meal that tastes like home, like Sunday after church, like a story your maw-maw used to tell.
“Cher, we set up under dem big ol’ pecan trees, right by the bayou, where the breeze smell like moss and smoke. Got dat fire goin’ stacked with oak and a lil’ bit o’ pecan wood for flavor. We cookin’ outside, like the old folks done taught us.
Got a big black pot hangin’, stirrin’ dat jambalaya with a paddle big as a boat oar. Sausage poppin’, chicken sizzlin’, onions and bell peppers dancin’ in dat grease. Somebody throw in a handful o’ green onions, and you know it’s gon’ be good.
“First you clean dat duck good, pluck it, singe it, and cut it up like you mean it. You season it heavy—salt, black pepper, cayenne, garlic powder, maybe a lil’ Tony’s if you feelin’ generous. Then you get dat black pot hot over a wood fire, not too fast, just enough to make dat oil shimmer.
You brown dat duck down till it’s got color like a good roux—dark and rich. Throw in your onions, bell peppers, celery, and a handful o’ green onions.
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Fresh Shrimp / Des crevettes tout frais, cher! "Straight from the Gulf, still tappin’ their tails to the bayou beat." Packed with pride in Lake Charles, LA Net Weight: [Insert weight] Keep chilled. Cook with soul.
Shrimp, crab, gar, drum, gator, and the rest of the bayou choir—if it’s got fins, tails, or whispers stories underwater, it’s on the menu.
“IF IT SWIM, I GOT IT!”
Cajun‑French: Gombo étouffé avec tomate pis ail — cuit tout doux jusqu’à qu’ça chante dans la poêle. English: Smothered okra with tomato and garlic — slow‑cooked ‘til it sings in the skillet.
Cajun‑French: Feuilles de chou cavalier avec tasso fumé — tendre, salé, pis plein d’histoires du fumoir. English: Collard greens with smoky tasso — tender, salty, and full of smokehouse stories.
Cajun‑French: Salade de patates à la créole — moutarde, oignons verts, pis un clin d’œil d’été. English: Creole potato salad — mustard, green onions, and a wink of summer.
Cajun‑French: Patates douces pilées avec piment de Cayenne pis cannelle — sucré, piquant, pis chaud comme un coucher de soleil. English: Sweet potato mash with cayenne and cinnamon — sweet, spicy, and warm as a bayou sunset.
Cajun‑French: Riz sale avec foie de poulet, oignons verts, pis l’assaisonnement qui fait danser la cuillère. English: Dirty rice with chicken liver, green onions, and seasoning that makes the spoon dance.
There was a time when Celeste couldn’t sit still for the buzzing. Flies, gnats, horseflies, no-see-ums—each one a needle in her peace. They didn’t just land, they lingered. They didn’t just hum, they heckled. And in the thick of summer, when the bayou steamed like a pot of couvillion, they came in swarms, like gossip with wings.
Celeste tried everything: citronella, camphor, vinegar traps, even a spell from Tante Loulou’s old notebook that involved onion skins and a circle of salt. Nothing held. The flies kept coming. And they weren’t just flies, not really. They were memories. They were interruptions. They were the voices of things she’d buried deep—old griefs, old fears, old names she didn’t speak anymore.
Then came the moss witch.
She didn’t knock. She never did. She just appeared one dusk, standing ankle-deep in the water, her shawl dripping with Spanish moss and her eyes like polished pecan shells. She held out a hat. A wide-brimmed straw thing, woven tight and flat as a skillet. And from its brim dangled twelve frogs, each one tied by a string, each one blinking slow and solemn.
“They’ll eat what troubles you,” the witch said. “But you must name them.”Celeste took the hat and named the frogs one by one:
• Boudin – for the hunger that never filled
• Tante – for the stories she never got to finish
• Gris-Gris – for the spell that backfired
• Coco – for the cousin who vanished
• Miette – for the crumbs of comfort
• Zydeco – for the noise that drowned her
• Lune – for the sleepless nights
• Gumbo – for the mix that never settled
• Chère – for the love that left
• Marais – for the swamp that swallowed
• Fifolet – for the light that misled
• Mosca – for the flies themselves
She wore the hat the next morning. The frogs dangled like charms, like sentinels. And when the flies came, they didn’t land. They hovered, confused, then scattered. The frogs blinked. One croaked. Celeste smiled.
Now she walks the bayou bank with her hat and her names. The flies still come, but they don’t stay. And when someone asks about the frogs, she just says:Some things you don’t swat. You name them. You wear them. You let them hang until they hush.”
"Straight outta Cajun Country, we're Servin 'up seafood so fresh it still whispers tales from the Gulf! Flavor ain't just a taste- it's a tradition."
🎣 Catfish Couvillon with Fried on Da Side (Serves 8) "Cher, this ain’t just supper—it’s a bayou blessing in a bowl, with a crispy wink on the side."
Here’s how we do it down in Big Mamou;
“This here’s a pile o’ pinch-tail promise—boil it, etouffée it, or fry it up, Cajun-style never runs outta ways.”
Servings: 6 Prep Time: 20 minutes Cook Time: 30 minutes Total Time: ~50 minutes
“Le baptême d’un ouaouaron.”
Down in the crook of the bayou, where the moss hangs heavy and the frogs holler like they got secrets to spill, young T-Jules strutted back from the shallows with a grin wide as a gumbo pot. In his hand? The biggest bullfrog this side of the Atchafalaya—legs thick as a preacher’s forearms and eyes still blinkin’ like they knew what was comin’.
“Cher,” he said, breathless, “this one’s got couvillon in his future.”
“Le baptême d’un ouaouaron.”
The fire was mostly coals now—glowin’ low, steady, and wise. T-Jules hung the Dutch oven from a tripod rigged with rebar and rope, the kind passed down from uncle to uncle. Inside, the couvillon was thick and red, stirred slow with a roux dark as a storm cloud and a splash of sassafras for memory.
The frog backs floated proud, front legs still attached like they were reachin’ for one last lily pad.
“Le baptême d’un ouaouaron.”
The frog legs sizzle golden in the cast iron, grease poppin’ like a fiddle tune. The fire’s fed with driftwood and stories, and that ol’ dog in the grass knows supper’s close. Behind the skillet, the bayou watches—still, green, and full of memory. This ain’t just cookin’. It’s a ritual.
Cajun Proverb: “Quand les cuisses chantent dans la poêle, le bayou écoute.” (“When the legs sing in the skillet, the bayou listens.”)
“Le baptême d’un ouaouaron.”
“IF IT SWIM, I GOT IT!” Fresh from the Gulf, packed with pride in Lake Charles, LA
📞 Phone: (337) 438-6844 🌐 Website: www.bigmamouenterprises.com
Shrimp, crab, gar, drum, gator, and the rest of the bayou choir—if it’s got fins, tails, or whispers stories underwater, it’s on the menu
What Folks Say: “Big Mamou don’t just serve food—they serve the season.” “Every event’s got a flavor, a feeling, and a story you’ll carry home.”
🍉 “Cher, dem Sugar Town watermelons? C’est le goût du soleil dans une bouchée.”
Down in Sugar Town, where the dirt’s sweet and the days run long, them melons grow fat and proud—striped like a Sunday shirt and heavy like a promise. You crack one open and lawd, the juice runs like it’s tryin’ to escape, red as a cardinal’s wing and cold like a creek in July.
🫙 “Fais ta conserve, cher—comme Maman faisait dans le vieux temps.”
Down here at Big Mamou, we don’t just jar food—we bottle memory. Whether it’s fig preserves sweet as a porch kiss, pepper jelly with a bite like a gossipin’ aunt, or pickled okra that snaps like a good story, we’ll help you seal it up just right.
🦞 “C’est pas juste un plat—c’est une chanson dans la bouche.”
Start with dat holy trinity—onion, bell pepper, celery—all chopped fine and sizzlin’ in a roux dark as bayou midnight. You stir it slow, like you coaxin’ a story outta an old uncle. Then come the garlic, the spice, the splash of stock, and maybe a wink of white wine if you feelin’ fancy.
🍛 “Red beans, sausage, rice, and dat cornbread—cher, c’est le repas qui hugs your soul.”
Down here at Big Mamou, we don’t just serve a plate—we serve a memory. Them red beans been simmerin’ all day, slow and steady like a bayou breeze. Seasoned with sassafras, smoked meat, and a whole lotta love, they come out creamy and rich, like they been kissed by Maman’s wooden spoon.
🌿 “Okra, So Many Ways—Cajun Truths from the Skillet to the Sassafras”
Cher, down here in Big Mamou, okra ain’t just a vegetable—it’s a way of life. We cook it, pickle it, fry it, smother it, and stir it into stories like it’s part of the family. That green pod’s got more personalities than a bayou gossip.
The sausage? Oh, it’s got that snap when you bite, spicy and smoky like a good story told 'round the fire. Laid right next to a fluffy pile of Louisiana rice—each grain ready to soak up that gravy like it’s beggin’ for a second chance.
And on da side? Golden cornbread, crumbly and warm, with just enough sweetness to make you close your eyes and hum. You mop up the beans with it, or eat it slow with a pat of butter that melts like a bayou sunset.
“Every pop-up’s got a flavor, a feeling, and a story you’ll carry home.”
🧺 Cajun Picnic / Pop-Up Party "Cher, when the shade’s thick and the table’s full, you know it’s time to pass a good time."
Event Name: Bayou Blanket & Bites Style: Cajun Pop-Up Picnic Price: $18.00 per person Location: Under the oaks, by the bend, or wherever the frogs still sing
🐖 Cochon de Lait Pop-Up Party "Cher, when the fire’s lit and the hog’s on the spit, you know it’s time to pass a good time."
Event Name: Cochon de Lait: Fire, Feast & Folklore Style: Cajun Pop-Up Gathering Price: $22.00 per person Location: Big Mamou bend or wherever the moss hangs heavy
“Every cut got a story. Every bite got a blessing.” Come hungry. Leave family.
served with your choice.
2 lbs gar meat (scraped, ground, or pulsed—not pasty)
A quick, elegant dish with bright, briny notes.
A Cajun classic with a smoky crust.
A Cajun classic with a smoky crust.
5. Cast Iron Black Drum
Simple and soulful.
“Every pop-up’s got a flavor, a feeling, and a story you’ll carry home.”
A Cajun twist on the Cuban classic, with swamp aromatics and spicy citrus punch.
Yields: ~48 croquignoles Prep Time: 25 minutes + chilling Cook Time: 1–1½ minutes per batch Best Served: Fresh, with hot chocolate or café au lait
Reveillon
“The Night the Bayou Stayed Awake”
Down in the bend, where the moss hangs low and the frogs know when to hush, the Thibodeauxs was settin’ up for Reveillon. Christmas Eve, cher—ain’t no regular supper. You wait ‘til midnight, then you eat like the saints done blessed your table.
Maman Rosalie, she had her croquignoles fryin’ in the black pot, steam risin’ like prayers. The young’uns was runnin’ ‘round, tryin’ to catch shadows on the porch, and the old folks was sippin’ brûlot cof
Reveillon
stories that curled like smoke.
“Y’all hush,” Maman said. “The frogs done gone quiet.”
That’s when you know somethin’s stirrin’.
Right ‘fore midnight, Coco Dri—the big ol’ gator Celeste raised like kin—came up from the bayou, slow and easy, layin’ hisself down by the porch like he was waitin’ for his plate. Didn’t nobody flinch. He was family.
Maman Rosalie looked at him, then at the stars, and said, When the beast com to keep watch, the year gon'be good. They , Laughed the Bayou"Lis
“Réveillon, c’est quand la nuit veille avec nous—on mange, on rit, on prie, pis on se rappelle.” (Réveillon is when the night keeps watch with us—we eat, we laugh, we pray, and we remember.)
It’s the Christmas Eve feast, but it ain’t served ‘til the clock strikes twelve. You wait, you watch, you stir the pot slow like you coaxin’ a blessing.
Maman Rosalie looked at him, then at the stars, and said, When the beast com to keep watch, the year gon'be good. They , Laughed the Bayou" Listen.
étoiles au-dessus, pis les lumières des cyprès dansent dans l’eau comme des lucioles en fête.
Les arbres sont drapés de mousse espagnole, pis les lumières de Noël pendent comme des bijoux anciens. Le vent est doux, l’eau est calme, pis le bayou regarde avec tendresse. C’est pas un traîneau, non—c’est une pirogue bénie, pis Papa Noël, il vient pas du Nord, il vient du cœur du Sud, là où les histoires vivent encore.
Là-bas dans le coude du bayou, quand le ciel rougit pis les grenouilles font silence, y’a Papa Noël qui glisse sur l’eau comme un rêve d’enfant. Il est debout dans son grand pirogue, large comme un champ de canne, le sourire large comme le Mississippi. Il tient son bâton de bois, pis il pousse doucement, comme s’il connaît chaque racine sous l’eau.
Dans le fond du bateau? Des cadeaux, des paquets, des sacs rouges débordants—des jouets, des douceurs, des promesses. Les rubans brillent comme les
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“Cuisiner sur le brasie – Fait une bonne sauce, cher!” \
(Cook it on the fire—make a good sauce, dear!)
🐖 Braised Pork, with 3’s in a Sauce Rouille "Cher, dat’s three kinds o’ love in one pot—slow-cooked, swamp-kissed, and rouille-rich."
Cajun Sayin’: “Cochon tombé dans la sauce, trois fois béni.” (The pig fell in the sauce, three times blessed.)
Cajun Sayin’: “Canard tombé dans la rouille, c’est le goût du bois et du feu.” (The duck fell in the rouille—it’s the taste of wood and flame.)
“Jambalaya au cochon pis viande fumée—fait sur commande, cher. Assez pour nourrir huit bons mangeurs, pis y’en aura p’tet encore pour le lendemain.” (Pork and smoked meat jambalaya—made to order, dear. Enough to feed eight good eaters, and maybe still some left for tomorrow.)
Seasonings:
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🎣 “Apprendre à pêcher, là où le silence parle” Down on the bayou, cher, where the moss hangs like old secrets and the water don’t rush for nobody, two ti garçons sit barefoot on the bank, cane poles in hand, learnin’ the art of patience. Ain’t no fancy reels or shiny lures—just a hook, a worm, and a whole lotta listenin’.
The older one shows the younger how to feel the tug, how to watch the ripples, how to hush when the frogs go quiet. “Dat’s when you know,” he says, “somethin’s comin’.”
Down by the bend where the water curls like a sleepy snake, them same two ti garçons stand knee-deep in the shallows. The older one’s holdin’ a cast net—heavy with promise, stitched with stories. He don’t just throw it. He shows it.
“Tu dois danser avec,” he says. “Like you dancin’ with the wind.” He loops the net just so, gathers it in his arms like a lover, then spins—whoosh!—it flies out wide, a silver halo over the bayou. Lands soft, like moss fallin’ from a tree.
Two Cajun men stand waist-deep in the muddy hush of the bayou, framed by a towering cypress draped in Spanish moss. One wears a straw hat, the other a faded ball cap. Their arms plunge into the water, bare and strong, searching by feel for the whiskered prize below. A catfish, big as a watermelon and twice as slippery, thrashes between them—caught not by hook, but by grit and knowing.
This image ain’t just a picture—it’s a promise. Of wild places, real food, and adventure .
Two Cajun men, waist-deep in the hush of the shallows, wrangle a beast older than memory—a massive alligator snapping turtle, mouth wide, neck stretched like it’s reachin’ for the past. This ain’t just noodlin’. It’s a moment caught between myth and muscle.
Hand-signed, numbered, and printed on archival bayou-textured stock. Includes a certificate of authenticity and a short dispatch from Celeste herself.
Limited Edition Print – $125 Only 50 prints available
Big Mamou Enterprises, 4037 E Bayou Wood Dr, Lake Charles, LA Date & Time: Saturdays at Sunrise (6:30 AM – 8:30 AM) Price: $35 per person | Includes coffee, storytelling, and a light bayou breakfast Booking: Call (337) 317-4312 or visit Big Mamou’s site
🌿 What You’ll Learn:
1. Don’t Fight the Water You gotta feel it, cher. The bayou don’t like to be rushed. You plant that pole gentle in the mud, lean your weight just enough, and let the boat glide like it’s got its own mind.
2. Balance Like a Heron A pirogue’s skinny as a lie and tips like gossip. Keep your feet wide, knees soft, and your eyes on the horizon. You ain’t just standin’—you’re dancin’.
3. Read the Ripples The water talks if you listen. Watch for the way it curls ‘round the knees of a cypress or hushes near a gator’s breath. That’s where you steer.
4. Know Your Mud Hard clay grips. Soft muck swallows. You learn where to plant your pole by the feel of the bottom. T-Jules says, “If it sucks your boot off, don’t pole there.”
5. Respect the Silence A good poler don’t splash, don’t shout, and don’t rush. The bayou’s got ears, and if you move quiet, it’ll show you things you w
Serves: 6 Prep Time: 30 min Cook Time: 1 hr 15 min
Side DishDescription
Smothered Okra Cooked down with tomatoes, garlic, and a whisper of sassafras until silky.
Dirty Rice Chicken livers, green onions, and spice—deep, earthy, and full of soul.
Cracklin’ Biscuits Flaky biscuits studded with pork cracklings—perfect for mop-up duty.
Down by the bend, where the moss hangs low and the cypress leans like it’s listenin’, Celeste’s settin’ up for supper. She’s perched on a short stool, knees wide, elbows restin’ like she’s been doin’ this since before the bayou had a name. Her bandana’s tied tight, red as a crawfish boil, and her eyes got that look—half prayer, half memory.
The fire’s cracklin’ in a ring of river stones, and over it hangs that long copper poissonnière, glintin’ like a relic from the old country.
a spotted cat—big as a promise, speckled like the stories on her tongue—simmers in sassafras broth. Steam rises slow, curlin’ like smoke from a fiddle tune, and Celeste lifts the lid gentle, like she’s wakin’ a spirit.
She don’t stir. She shakes the pot, just so. That’s how you keep the fish whole, cher. That’s how you honor the catch.
Behind her, the porch creaks. A child giggles. Somewhere, a frog hushes. And in that hush, you know
Bayou Self Chronicles in Cajun French—full of rhythm, reverence,
The bayou wakes slow. Maman Rosalie hangs linens on the line while red beans simmer low and steady. Children chase frogs, elders swap porch stories, and the scent of sassafras floats on the breeze.
Le bayou s’éveille doucement. Maman Rosalie étend les draps pendant que les haricots rouges mijotent tout bas. Les ti-garçons courent après les grenouilles, les vieux jasent sur le perron, pis l’odeur du sassafras flotte dans l’air.
Folks gather at the bend with baskets full of okra, eggs, and gossip. T-Jules sells pickled things in jars that sparkle like bayou jewels. A cast net flies wide,
Le monde se rassemble au coude avec des paniers pleins d’okra, d’œufs, pis de commérages. T-Jules vend des affaires marinées dans des pots qui brillent comme des bijoux du bayou. Quelqu’un lance le filet, pis un autr
Breakfast is couche-couche with cane syrup, served hot with a side of porch laughter. Midday brings pirogue polin’ lessons and quiet noodlin’ for supper. The water’s still, but the stories ripple.
Le déjeuner, c’est du couche-couche avec du sirop de canne, chaud et sucré, servi avec des rires sur le perron. L’après-midi, on apprend à pousser la pirogue pis à pêcher doucement pour le souper. L’eau est calme, mais les histoires font des vagues.
The pit’s lit early. Cochon de lait turns slow while the elders prep roux and rouille. Children carve voodoo dolls from driftwood. Celeste pens a dispatch about the Atchafalaya Dragon, who’s been restless lately.
Le feu est allumé tôt. Le cochon de lait tourne lentement pendant que les vieux préparent le roux pis la rouille. Les enfants sculptent des poupées vaudou dans le bois flotté. Celeste écrit une chronique sur le Dragon d’Atchafalaya, qui semble un peu agité ces jours-ci.
Fiddles and accordions echo through the trees. Moonshine jars clink. The bayou hums with rhythm, and even the gators seem to sway. Melanie’s back from her travels, unpacking stories and strange artifacts
Les violons pis les accordéons résonnent dans les arbres. Les pots de clairin tintent. Le bayou vibre avec le rythme, pis même les gators semblent danser. Mélanie est revenue, avec des histoires pis des objets étranges.
The young ones learn to cast nets and read ripples. Elders teach the old ways—how to cook with soul, how to listen when the frogs go quiet. A turtle slips through the reeds, and someone swears it spoke.
Les jeunes apprennent à lancer le filet pis à lire les rides de l’eau. Les vieux enseignent les vieilles façons—comment cuisiner avec l’âme, comment écouter quand les grenouilles se taisent. Une tortue glisse dans les roseaux, pis quelqu’un jure qu’elle a parlé.
The bayou hushes. Brûlot coffee brews dark and sweet. Dispatches are read aloud. Celeste lights a candle for the ancestors. The bend glows with reverence, and the moss hangs heavy with memory.
Le bayou se tait. Le café brûlot est fort et sucré. Les chroniques sont lues à haute voix. Celeste allume une chandelle pour les ancêtres. Le coude brille avec révérence, pis la mousse pend lourde avec les souvenirs.
🌿 Why It’s Special: This boucherie honors Cajun tradition from snout to tail. Nothing wasted, everything celebrated. It’s a gathering of kin, cooks, and curious souls—just like it’s been done for generations.
“Cher, t’abonne à notre Club du Souper du Bayou—on cuisine chaud, on mange ensemble, pis on rit comme les vieux temps.”
“C’est pas juste un abonnement, non—c’est ton billet pour des repas qui chantent dans la poêle.”
“Fèves rouges avec saucisse fumée, tout droit du fumoir—fraîchement cuisiné rien que pour toi. Pain de maïs dans la poêle, toujours quelque chose à boire, et un p’tit sucré pour finir. Avec un café chaud pour te ramener chez toi. Que le Bon Dieu te bénisse!”
“Poisson-chat tacheté, sorti d’un trou profond dans la rivière Calcasieu. La tête pis le ventre, ça fait un couvillon qui chante. Le reste, on le frit avec fierté, bien assaisonné comme les vieux faisaient. Les côtés, tu choisis, pis les sauces, c’est pour faire danser ton langue. C’est ça, manger bon dans le bayou.” “A spotted catfish, pulled fresh from a deep hole in the Calcasieu River. The head and belly meat make a couvillon that sings. The rest gets fried with pride, seasoned just like the old folks used to. Sides are yours to choose, and the sauces are there to make your tongue dance. That’s how you eat good in the bayou.”
“Le secret de nos boulettes—on hache notre bœuf frais dans la cuisine, pas de slime, mais du bœuf du pâturage, bien propre. Du porc haché aussi, si t’en veux. La Sainte Trinité est là, perdue nulle part. “The secret of our meatballs—we grind our beef fresh in the prep kitchen, no slime, just pasture-raised goodness. Clean ground pork available too, if you like. The Holy Trinity ain’t lost here. That rouille-style gravy will light up your senses like a fiddle tune. Sides to order.
“Moi, j’aime toujours le sauvage dans la sauce. Cette offrande, on peut la faire avec un canard élevé au lieu d’un canard sauvage ramassé dans les bois. Moi, je goûte la différence, mais toi, p’têt pas. J’aime bien servir des salades et des choux râpés avec les choses sauvages. Les côtés, c’est à la commande, pis pour finir, un bon Café Brûlot bien chaud. Apporte ton rouge, Cazan.” “I always love the wild in a sauce. This offering, we can do with a raised duck instead of a wild-harvested one. I can taste the difference—but you probably can’t. I love to serve fresh salads and coleslaws with wild things. Sides to order, and to finish, a delicious Café Brûlot. Bring your own red, Cazan.”
“Les écrevisses, ça peut satisfaire les grosses envies toute l’année. Quand j’étais petit, j’allais pêcher les écrevisses, pis on les préparait vivantes—fraîches et propres, on nettoyait les queues, on gardait tout le gras qu’on pouvait, pis on cassait les pinces pour la viande. Ma maman cuisinait une recette qui ne vieillit jamais—queues d’écrevisses fraîches, gras, pis viande de pince. Un étouffée dans une sauce au beurre frais, assaisonné comme dans le bon vieux temps. Servi sur du riz cultivé juste à l’extérieur de la ville, moulu de l’autre côté de la rue. Une salade de chou quand c’est la saison. Notre menu du jour, c’était toujours ‘Si c’est en saison!’” “Crawfish can satisfy the biggest cravings all year long. When I was little, I’d go crawfishing, and we’d process the live crawfish—fresh and clean, we’d wash the tails, keep all the fat we could, and crack the claws for meat. My mama would cook a timeless recipe—fresh crawfish tails and fat, claw meat. An étouffée in a sauce made with fresh butter, seasoned the way they did back then. Served over rice grown just outside of town, milled right across the street. A coleslaw when it’s in season. Our daily menu always followed one rule: ‘If it’s in season!’”
🌿 Welcome to Big Mamou’s Bayou Supper Club 🌿 “Where the fire’s always lit, and the stories come served with gravy.”
Dear Friend,
Well now, look who done come to supper.
We’re mighty glad you found your way to our table—whether by pirogue, pickup, or pure Cajun curiosity. Down here in Big Mamou, we don’t just cook—we conjure comfort. Every meal’s a memory, every bite a blessing, and every guest a cousin we just ain’t met yet.
You’re now part of a club where the cornbread’s crumbly, the roux’s rich, and the laughter rolls like thunder over the bayou. We serve up nightly Cajun feasts that taste like Sunday after church, like porch stories from your maw-maw, like the kind of love that sticks to your ribs.
Whether you’re flyin’ solo or bringin’ the whole famille, there’s a seat for you under the pecan trees. We got:
And cher, don’t forget—every dish comes with a side of soul. From wild duck in gravy to smothered meatball étouffée, we stir with a paddle big as a boat oar and season with stories passed down from the old folks.
So kick off your shoes, lean back in that cane chair, and let the bayou breeze do the rest. You’re home now.
With spice and spirit, Celeste & the Big Mamou Crew “We don’t just serve supper—we serve the season.”
“Une grosse marmite en fonte noire, remplie de couche-couche doré, chaud et croustillant. Une grande cuillère en bois repose dans le pot, prête à servir. Derrière, le bayou s’étend tranquille—les cyprès penchés, la mousse espagnole qui danse dans le vent, pis les grenouilles qui chantent comme un vieux disque. C’est le matin au bayou, pis le déjeuner est prêt. Le couche-couche fume, le café brûlot attend, pis le soleil commence à réchauffer les histoires.” “A big black Dutch oven, filled to the brim with golden couche-couche—hot, crisp, and ready. A long wooden stirring spoon rests in the pot, waiting to serve. Behind it, the bayou stretches out quiet and wide—cypress trees leaning, Spanish moss swaying in the breeze, and frogs singing like an old record. It’s morning on the bayou, and breakfast is ready. The couche-couche is steaming, the café brûlot is waiting, and the sun is warming up the stories.”
“Flavor ain’t just a taste—it’s a tradition.”
Down in Big Mamou, where the moss hangs low and the stories run deep, we don’t just cook—we conjure comfort. Cajun in a Box was born on a rooftop with a cardboard box, a straw hat, and a whole lotta joy. That image? That’s our founder, grinning like he just caught the biggest catfish in the bend. It’s not just a logo—it’s a promise.
We bring the bayou to your doorstep, one box at a time. Inside you’ll find the soul of Louisiana: fresh Gulf seafood, roux starters, hand-written recipe cards, and a dash of porch wisdom. Whether you’re stirrin’ a pot of jambalaya or fryin’ frog legs in cast iron, you’re not just makin’ supper—you’re makin’ memory.
Our mission is simple:
We serve singles, families, elders, and anyone who knows that a good meal starts with a story. So pull up a chair, grab a paddle, and let Cajun in a Box turn your kitchen into a bayou bistro.
From our box to your belly—laissez les bons temps rouler.
Big Mamou Enterprises
(337)xxxxxxx
Copyright © 2025 Big Mamou Enterprises - All Rights Reserved.
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