On the way out of Bayou Bakery the other night last week, Jeremy, Greg and I smelled bacon. Strongly. The smell wasn’t inside the restaurant. But outside, immediately out the side door, bacon consumed you. We walked down the ramp. The smell disappeared. We poked back inside. No bacon.
But then the Bayou owner walked by and like any good journalists, we asked him. The cooks were indeed preparing the bacon, and the vent was behind a nearby tree. You could smell it three levels down in the parking garage, he said. They couldn’t cook it during the day because managers from the high-rise above didn’t like it. Distracting workers, we surmised.
Saturday morning, I went back and got a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit sandwich to go (and maybe a chocolate croissant too). Once at home, I unwrapped the sandwich and tasted what we had smelled. Bacon in the doorway became bacon on the tongue, and that is this post’s only point.