If you love down-home grub, where Douglas Avenue meets Skinner Boulevard in Dunedin is the proverbial fork in the road. To the west, next to the Pinellas Trail, is BOTB winner Eli’s Bar-B-Que. But now, just a stone’s throw east is a happy new purveyor of low-country, Cajun and Florida cracker food.
And I do mean “happy.”
You see, the new food truck restaurant wrapped in a beautiful, clever, distressed wood facade, Happy’s Bayou Bites, is named after co-owner Happy Jordan. What she and husband Mark have done is right out of a Cajun Wizard of Oz.
Where there was once an empty lot, a tornado of activity has dropped a taste of the bayou under a sprawling, gnarled old oak tree. You can imagine a waterfront shack sitting on the edge of the Mississippi delta swamp. Hungry folks use a push pole to maneuver a flat-bottomed boat and hop out on a crushed oyster shell path to grab an alligator or crayfish sausage po’ boy. Though the sun beats down, the shade of the enormous tree limbs deflects the rays as you sit at a rainbow-colored picnic table, wipe your brow and revel in the cooling tastes of an Abita Andygator beer. The distinct, high-gravity brew packs a whopping 8-percent alcohol, but it sure goes well with the fried food. All seems right with the world.
The heart of the menu is built around the po’ boy, New Orleans’ spin on the submarine sandwich. Happy’s offers po’ boys with fried or blackened catfish, chicken or shrimp, plus fried gulf oysters, sautéed crab cakes and crawfish or alligator sausage. They’re all served dressed with lettuce, tomato, pickle, mayo and remoulade on a baguette.
I love the crab, crawfish sausage and hand-breaded shrimp. My chicken, while crispy, is under-seasoned. There are a variety of hot sauces available to tweak the flavors to taste, but the expected zing of the remoulade is lost in my selections. The weak link in the whole chain is the French bread. The rolls are more like typical buns without the crispness and density of the baguette you’d find at say, Mother’s Restaurant, in NOLA. Still, there’s flavor to spare, so I don’t miss the texture so much.
The chicken and sausage gumbo is also made from scratch, with plenty of deep flavor and chunky goodness. It is oddly thin for a roux-based soup yet remains very tasty on the palate.
While the Happy’s muffuletta won’t make you forget the iconic original from Central Grocery, it’s a solid effort. First of all, it’s on a human scale. The capicola ham, salami, mortadella, provolone and mozzarella are intertwined with two layers of chopped olive salad in a sandwich that reminds you why this is such a New Orleans classic. Like the po’ boys, a true French bread would up the game, but I still enjoy this one immensely and am planning a trip back as I write.
Sides include packages of Zapp’s potato chips made kettle-style with peanut oil in Louisiana; a fine yet not distinctive “gumbo” red-skinned potato salad; and, finally, a struggle of wills. Before me, a small styrofoam container brims with chunks of ripe red tomatoes tossed with crisp cucumbers sprinkled with herbs. The angel on my shoulder whispers salad’s healthy virtues seductively in my ear. “Think of the cooling juicy tomato on your palate. You know you’ll love the crunch of fresh cukes and the zing from the tangy herbs. Is there even any question about its culinary goodness? Won’t you please eat this one for little ol’ me?”
“What is the matter with you,” screams the devil in my other ear. “Are you blind? And have you lost your sense of smell, you hoity-toity wine guy? Look at those gorgeous golden-brown hush puppies, you doofus. Those are the kind of things a guy dreams about. Just put one in your mouth, and you’ll see what I mean.”
“Just say NO,” is the angel’s retort. “Do you know what that fried stuff does to your heart?”
But by now, the smells wafting from that quartet of fresh hush puppies have made their way to my nose. My resolve is melting away. What’s the harm in one tiny bite? I gingerly raise one of the warm golf ball-size orbs to my lips, noting its crisp, irregular asteroid-like appearance. I take an ecstatic bite. The soft and spongy interior is wonderful, with a real spicy kick on a lingering finish.
“Don’t you realize that hush puppies are like gateway drugs?” the angel sniffles. “Now will you listen to me, dickhead?” the devil barks.
Ravenously, I enthusiastically polish off the remaining spheres in short order, relishing their unexpected goodness. The angel faints, and my dark side prevails.
The restaurant’s lone dessert option is pie on a stick from Palm Harbor’s J.J. Gandy’s Pies. Diners choose from key lime, chocolate chip or brownie pie wedges dipped in dark chocolate.
Happy’s captures the charm of the bayou region and the essence of casual cuisine. As its business card proclaims, “If ya ain’t smiling, ya ain’t eating.” So whether you enter through an imaginary flatboat or just drive your car down Skinner, pay a visit and be transported.
Jon Palmer Claridge dines anonymously when reviewing. Check out the explanation of his rating system.