In disbelief that the second trip was indicative of Estelle’s potential, I visited once more. I’m glad I did. Alone at the bar, I order a shrimp po’ boy and a glass of Pinot Noir. (Estelle’s has a beer-and-wine license, the beer selection is at least extensive — 30 on tap and several more in bottles.)
One bite of the po’ boy, and Estelle’s has redeemed itself. The sandwich, while a bit skimpy on the shrimp, is toasted, with a crunch from both the bread and the fried green tomato inside. Even the fries have bounced back from the Patriots’ loss, hot and crispy this time.
Then the soundtrack, courtesy of the bar’s iPod, yanks me right out of the South with a problem that extends well beyond geography: Can’t a man enjoy a po’ boy without Avril Lavigne butting in?
James Reed can be reached at email@example.com.