History has given southwestern Louisiana a unique character of its own. Here, you’ll find a heady melting pot of people, cuisine, and music. In search of what it really means to be ‘Cajun’, we travel through a world of rivers, swamps, sandbanks, and a vanishing coastline.
On the straight road to Hackberry, water flanks us on both sides, with small boats bobbing between the reeds as fishermen haul up crawfish traps. It’s crawfish season, and over the next few days we’ll find it on the menu in every imaginable form: in cake, soup, salad, boudin (a type of sausage), grilled, fried, or boiled. ‘And how spicy would you like it, sir: mild, hot, or blazing?’
In the Cajun Heartland—roughly the triangle between Lafayette, Lake Charles, and Alexandria—they‘re proud of their quirky cuisine. It’s not just a cultural treasure rooted in history, it‘s the glue that binds the community. ‘Any excuse to talk about food,’ says Donnie Glynn, who took us on a bike ride around Lake Charles this morning.
It was a charming ride. Lake Charles is honest and unfiltered. You get old wooden houses in the Charpentier District, tree-lined streets, a classic American Broad Street with brick buildings—and sometimes, on the horizon, the distant silhouette of gas and oil plants that brought prosperity to the region.
As we trail behind Donnie and his tricycle with music blaring from a speaker, the conversation keeps returning to food. ‘Whether we‘re hanging out or standing in line at the store, we’re talking recipes, cooking techniques, spice blends, and secret ingredients we won‘t reveal. Oh yeah, in Louisiana we love to feed you.’
The road ends in a T-junction. Right takes you to Texas, left to the small town of Cameron. On the other side, homes rise on tall stilts: Holly Beach. Once a vibrant community, it‘s now a weekend escape—battered by hurricanes and rising seas, year-round living here is no longer viable.
A ferry takes us to Cameron, a town trying to avoid Holly Beach’s fate. By the water, we sample Cajun dishes at Lighthouse Bend, a restaurant, resort, store, and marina funded by Venture Global LNG, which operates a large gas terminal in town.
The table fills quickly: crab cakes made with Louisiana Blue Crab, oysters grilled on devilled eggs, boudin balls (we’ll get back to those), shrimp salad, and for the bold, a steaming Gulf Coast gumbo. More stew than soup, it holds chicken, sausage, potatoes and veg—and it tells the region’s story.
Nature guide Anne Klinke explains: ‘Southwest Louisiana is a true melting pot—Native Americans, Spaniards, French, English, and African Americans. The Texas-Louisiana border was long disputed, so people got creative with laws and customs. That shaped our society and our food.’
The term ‘Cajun’ comes from ‘Cadiens’, referring to the Acadian people exiled from eastern Canada in the 18th century. Many of them settled in Spanish Louisiana. That explains the French names, and the regional dialect—though fewer and fewer people still speak it.
Even the landscape defies boundaries. It’s hard to tell where land ends and water begins. We follow the Creole Nature Trail, one of only 57 nationally recognised All-American Roads in the US. Stretching 288 kilometres, it cuts through Louisiana‘s wildest corners—home to hundreds of bird species, butterflies, snakes, crabs, and of course, the American alligator.
On Pintail Drive, a short loop off the trail, we spot our first gator almost instantly. It lies in the grass, near a marshy stretch. ‘Why so alert?‘ Anne wonders—then points: ‘Look right. One, two, three, four babies!’
Our excitement triggers mama gator. She rises, opens her massive jaws, and lumbers toward the water—then sinks back down, teeth facing us. Her message is clear: back off.
Cajun means many things: people, food, and music. Chef Roman Ardoin of Salt Revival Oyster Co. in Lake Charles embraces it all. His family didn‘t arrive by sea but travelled down the Mississippi. He loves Southern cuisine. ‘Cajun food blends Native American, West African, French and Spanish influences. It uses what’s available. And here in Louisiana, we have it all: seafood, meat, fresh veg. Year-round.’
Deeper into Cajun Heartland, around Lafayette, we change our plans due to rain. No farmers market—instead, breakfast with live music in Duson. A surprise hit. Far from sleepy, the energy inside Naq‘s N‘Duson explodes.
Musician Geno Delafose, a zydeco veteran, lights up the room. ‘I was on stage by seven,’ he says during a short break. ‘My dad had a band, my brothers play too. It‘s in our blood. Cajun is lighter, with fiddle and organ. Zydeco has more bass, more blues.’
Geno has three gigs today across southwest Louisiana. He shrugs. ‘That‘s the life.’ Then he grabs his accordion, and the crowd is dancing again: line dances, onesteps, twosteps. Breakfast plates make way for beer buckets. It’s 10am in rural Louisiana.
Lafayette is our base for exploring the sultry Cajun Heartland. We wander Jefferson Street‘s shops and cafes, stop by the last remaining Borden’s Ice Cream Shoppe (opened in 1940), visit a Cajun open-air museum, and tour the historic Tabasco factory founded in 1868.
Later, we glide through the Atchafalaya Basin—at 5,700 square kilometres, the largest swamp in the US. We pass levees, backwaters, and moss-draped cypresses. The bayou.
Before returning to Lafayette, we meet Tait Martin of Wildcat Brothers Distilling for a rum tasting. ‘The first glass is a warning shot. Your body thinks it‘s poison and goes on high alert. The second? Now you’re ready to taste.’
Tait is passionate about sugarcane rum. ‘This is the Napa Valley of cane. Our ancestors didn‘t make whiskey—they used what they had: sugar, fruit, herbs. We‘re reviving that.’
We end our journey at The Cajun Table with heaping trays of crawfish. Crawfish season means it‘s busy. One final dilemma remains: hot, or super hot?
Spanish, French, African, Native American, Western European, Mexican – the Southern kitchen is downright exciting thanks to all these influences. Taste and dare to experiment with everything local.
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