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Juneau's Sandwich Shop:
Rediscovering a Neighborhood Dynasty By
Deb Burst
In 1967, I was beginning a new chapter in my life with a new school, a new town and the horrors of becoming a teenager. I spent my childhood as a Navy brat traveling in and out of the country and longing for a real hometown. My family and I toured many subdivisions trying to find the perfect home in our new city of New Orleans and my parents decided the suburbs would be a good place to settle down, so our travels ended in the small town of Marrero. In this completely unfamiliar place, I found comfort in a neighborhood dynasty eating delicacies known as po-boys. At first I battled a language barrier with foreign terms such as po-boy, softshell crab and crawfish, but then I discovered a culinary utopia: Juneau's sandwich shop. Located across the street from Marrero Junior High School, Juneau's brought harmony to a teenage world of woe filled with racial riots and the Vietnam War. The thought of eating a drippy po-boy had teenagers cramming the small eatery with a force so great that Mr. Juneau had to bolt the counters to the floor in fear his wife and their employees would be crushed. The school board voted to end this ritual, blaming racial integration as their motive. Marrero Junior High students could no longer leave school property to satisfy their daily fix. Horror stories ran rampant regarding the punishments dealt by what we called the "po-boy police." Everyone was in a frenzy to find a way to satisfy an addiction they came to know and love. Each morning, the school grounds became a battleground with students fighting to cross enemy lines. Some brave souls risked the principal's scorn by darting across the street to Juneau's back door where owner Pearl Juneau whisked them in. But I was a wimp, always following the rules, so I hooked up with a girlfriend equally as nerdy and began the long walk each morning from home to Juneau's. So here I was lugging heaving books and working on marathon blisters, dedicated to delicacies that had been foreign to me just weeks earlier. My quest for Juneau's luscious egg-salad sandwich became a daily obsession with complete disregard to any nutritional benefits. Yet while I admit I was an addict in my younger years, I didn't suffer from the Peter Pan syndrome. I grew up, agonized through the 70's health food craze and tediously followed low fat diets. But it had been 35 years and it had been too damn long since I had a juicy roast beef po-boy or permitted myself to indulge. It is mid-October and the cool weather reminds me of my old stomping grounds, Marrero Junior High and Juneau's. It's time to rediscover that neighborhood dynasty and satisfy my sinful cravings. It's time to be naughty! Juneau's still evokes a unique charm that hasn't changed since its opening 50 years ago in 1952. A two story building with white siding, a big backyard, restaurant on bottom, residence on top; Juneau's reflects a traditional home. It's located miles from any businesses, tucked in an old but well-kept neighborhood. The school and the neighborhood have weathered my thirty-five year absence quite well. The old Seven-Up sign is the only thing that shows its age, worn and faded from New Orleans' broiling sun, reminding us that age is inevitable. As I walk through the Juneau's screen door, I feel like I'm visiting grandma with the door and windows always open, welcoming all to come in and sit a spell. It is truly a leap into the past. The red Coca-Cola ice box is a little worn, with duct tape supporting the hinged lid, but it’s still chilling Barq's and other sodas to a frosty coating, while the red antique cash registers stand guard against any encroaching technology. Terry Juneau, second generation owner, is proud of maintaining the same decor for the last fifty years. "Some people tell me the cash registers are worth more than the money in them," he says. Juneau, the fifth child out of sixth, assumed the reigns from his sister, who in turn had succeeded their mother, Pearl. All the food is still homemade including the roast beef, meatballs and their signature wiener and gravy sandwich--a hot dog split three times in length and width, simmered in a savory eleven-ingredient bisqué style gravy. It's also been called a Cajun hot dog and hot dog étouffée or simply as I remember it, a Juneau's sandwich. Many people have done strange things to satisfy their cravings for a Juneau's hot dog. One of the more colorful stories is the pregnant woman who went into labor and refused to deliver her baby until her demands were met. "She refused to go to the hospital until her husband stopped to get a Juneau's hot dog," Juneau says. I know the feeling of immediate need as my absence of 35 years has created a monster craving for everything Juneau's has to offer. Juneau offers me samples of the infamous hot dog and the egg salad. I can taste all eleven ingredients in the hog dog sauce, and the mother in me now wonders if Pearl's creation didn't come from the dilemma of trying to keep six kids full and happy. I finish my first round of food and move on to the next culinary delight--a roast beef po-boy. If one of the best criteria for judging a po-boy is the amount of napkins you soil, my six inch stack of paper towels proves that Juneau's roast beef wins hands down. Maybe that's why they have an entire roll of paper towels on every table. Ecstatic with a sense of rediscovery, I grab my cell phone and call my sister to share in my celebration. She is having a hectic day at the office, but at the mention of the warm wiener sandwich, a strange calm enters her voice. We reminisce, savoring the days of eating Juneau's sandwiches, promising to fulfill our fantasies together at a later date. Juneau's has a nostalgic atmosphere including the food, the homey surroundings and the service. Terry and his girls greet each customer like they are welcoming a visitor to their home. Today is Monday, so most talk about the latest Saints win (they're winning this year), or the latest fishing story (another tall tale), and the line moves quickly. I watch in amazement over how it has transformed from a teenage hangout to a business that builds its success on locals and blue-collar workers. Juneau explains that his mother feared the shop was doomed after the kids gave up and stopped coming. He admits the key element in their success is providing quality food at low prices, with daily plate lunches ranging from $3.75 to $6.50. Maintaining a family atmosphere is also important. "Parents and grandparents come in with their children," Juneau says. "We do very little advertising: it's word of mouth with local and family clientele." The menu has something for all ages and appetites. It is simple but sufficient: hamburgers, roast beef, ham & cheese, sausage, meat ball, wiener, chicken patty and turkey sandwiches, traditional seafood, catfish, shrimp and oysters. There are three salad varieties: tuna, chicken and my favorite, egg salad. Although most foods at Juneau's offer a healthy dose of fat, there is the obligatory diet plate (I have no idea what's in it). As I leave, I'm overwhelmed by guilt as if I had an affair. I tell myself I'll be back, but I know it will never happen. This is a one-lunch stand, leaving me with fantasies of red meat and mayonnaise that are forbidden on my forty-something diet. I enjoyed my visit to the old neighborhood, but fear for its future. With Ma and Pop kitchens in peril of disappearing, we should dedicate our patronage to family restaurants and their descendants. At ninety years old, Pearl Juneau has left a long legacy of dedicated and successful business owners. Juneau assured me that his mother's 50 year-old haven will live on through the next generation of family entrepreneurs. "There were six kids, many who had children and grandchildren, ready to take it over," he says. |
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