I  always feel blatantly American here – even if you discount the accent, I’m scruffy and wear jeans, hiking boots and a jacket – and though I’ve been considering a haircut to blend in, tonight my stomach also asserted its nationality. One of the things I haven’t found despite all my legwork has been any sort of Cajun food. There are a thousands of Indian and Chinese restaurants, plenty of Mediterranean, Russian, and African groceries, and almost everything at the open markets, but there don’t appear to be enough Acadians in the city to warrant groceries or restaurants. Even the better-stocked groceries don’t seem to carry so much as grits or jerk seasoning, so tonight I tried to approximate good old dirty rice with what I had on hand. It wasn’t truly Cajun; if you averaged the longitudes of the spices and ingredients, you’d wind up pretty much back in Britain. Still, it was nice to have a semi-American meal.

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