When you are introduced to New Orleanians, you have to give your last name.  Don’t just say, ‘Hi.  I’m Danielle.’  Natives will unconsciously shake their heads at you as if to suggest that you should shake the rest of your name loose from your mouth.

New Orleanians place a high value on last names.  Last names are how you know who’s who up in here.  In New Orleans, your last name will let folks know what neighborhood you grew up in, what your family does for a living, your political affiliation, if you are to be reckoned with or avoided at all costs, and any and all juicy scandals you or your relatives were involved in.

My first encounter with the Emperor of Golden Goodness was at a neighborhood meeting several years ago.  It was one of those days I’d been going non-stop and by 8:30pm, I was drained, listening to some presenter droning on about god only knows what.  I tipped to the back to say my goodbyes and was encouraged by the hosts to take some snacks home with me.  Not feeling like ingesting cheap treats but also not wanting to appear stuck-up, I put two wings in a napkin and was on my way out the door.  Nine wings later, I realize not only am I still standing by the snack table but at this point I’m hogging the appetizers!  I whipped my head up to see the host watching me, amused.  I mouthed something along the lines of “WTF is this amazing flavor fest I’m putting in my mouth???”  She walked over chuckling and uttered a simple yet profound, two syllable nirvana-inducing word:

MANCHU