There’s a moment I’ve come to recognize in north Louisiana, when a basket of fried catfish touches down on the table and the room seems to lower its volume all at once, as if the sound of the fryer has followed it out and everyone understands this is the point where talking can wait.
Spending time in Shreveport and across the river taught me that catfish here isn’t treated as novelty or nostalgia, but as something quietly celebratory, a dish built from cornmeal, heat, and restraint, where the smallest choices make the biggest difference.
I started paying closer attention to those details after a few meals that lingered longer than expected, noticing how seasoning should cling without overpowering, how the crust needs to sing when you bite into it, and how the sides matter because they’re part of the same conversation, not an afterthought…