A collision of food, music, history, passion, chaos … yep, that pretty much sums up New Orleans for you. “Nawlins,” as us locals say it. NOLA. The Crescent City. The Big Easy. Different names for the same magical, one-of-a-kind place. My hometown of three-and-a-half decades. The capital of the world, as far as I’m concerned. A city where anything can happen, and nothing is ever as it seems.

Sometimes that’s a good thing.

Other times—and I refuse to go there at the moment—it’s a bad thing.

A very bad thing.

“Two scoops, three waddles, one shake!” I call back to Marlene, parroting the culinary shorthand we’ve developed running Killer Chef together these past few years. The work is grueling. Endless. Exhausting. But I love every second of it, doing something so simple yet so satisfying, providing great food at good prices to hungry and eager customers.

And with Marlene, I couldn’t imagine having a better partner in crime, even though we’ve been divorced for years.

From the stack of empty paper serving boats beside me, I take six and fan them out along my prep space like a poker dealer flicking cards. From a plastic baggie sticking out of my back pocket, I grab an organic green jalapeño chili pepper and pop it into my mouth for a spicy pick-me-up. It’s an unusual habit, I know, but better than a lot of other chefs’ vices—trust me. Then I get to work.

I start with the “scoops.” I fill two paper boats with mounds of fresh, piping-hot cheese grits. I top each with a healthy—well, unhealthy—dollop of softened butter, followed by a huge scoop of grillades. That’s a thick, fragrant Cajun stew made with seared veal medallions, onions, garlic, beef broth, and red wine.

Next come the “waddles.” Into three serving boats go generous portions of “dirty rice,” the grains the color of caramel, thanks to the spiced chicken giblets they’re cooked with. Then, from the sizzling griddle in front of me, I add to each one a gator boudin, a succulent smoked sausage made with the meat of that legendary bayou predator. (The first time I ever cooked one for Marlene, years back, she said it tasted so fresh and juicy, she half-expected it to waddle off her plate. The name stuck.)

Last, I make the “shake.” I dump a batch of twisted strips of raw dough into the metal deep-fryer basket, then plunge them into the scalding vat of oil. Once they’re golden brown and perfectly flaky, I slide them into a serving boat and dust them with precisely six shakes of powdered sugar. Most New Orleans joints serve beignets, a similar, more common regional pastry. But I’ve always preferred these, known as angel wings. And I’ve never been one to follow the crowd, either here or in my other career.