Big Mamou
68 Liberty St., Springfield
413-732-1011
15 Main St., Williamsburg
413-268-8901
Open Mon.-Thu. 11 a.m.-9 p.m., Fri. 11 a.m.-10 p.m., Sat. 12 p.m.-4 p.m., 5 p.m.-10 p.m.
Entrées $8.95-$17.95
A real taste of the Cajun South is not an experience you expect to have in sleepy Williamsburg. But judging by the packed house at Big Mamou early on a recent Wednesday evening, the restaurant, long a Springfield favorite, has already gotten comfy in its newer location, and the cat’s out of the bag.
We were seated and served by a young woman teetering on stilettos and sporting skin-tight faded jeans and a hoodie. When my companion ordered a mojito, she became nervous; she’d only ever made two, she said. I had thought about placing the same order, especially after a sip of the tasty and refreshing cocktail, but to quell her anxiety I ordered a mint julep (“Chef Wayne’s answer to the mojito”) instead.
A visit to Big Mamou is not a casual event. This is serious eating. You should go on an empty stomach, even though that means the drinks will go to your head faster. You need an appetite to even dent your entrée.
Novices that we were, we ordered two appetizers ahead of our mains. First there were “Chef Wayne’s Thunder Thighs Jerked.” Just that morning, I had read an article about jerk. Excited by the prospect of the real deal at a local restaurant, I ordered the app without a second thought.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so dismissive of the dish’s description—“The hottest thing since buffalo wings but not the same”—before being so daring. The signature rub of thyme, allspice, ginger, garlic, brown sugar, vinegar, and, most notably, Scotch bonnet chili peppers didn’t feel like much of a challenge during the first few bites, but once the heat began to resonate, our eyes welled with tears and we were grateful for those minty drinks. The plate of sliced chicken was enormous, but we downed it all. Although the jerk isn’t for the faint of heart, it’s certainly worth ordering if you can take the heat; the flavor is absolutely unique.
Our next choice, though tasty, was less notable in both flavor and heat. A chicken and sausage gumbo (the meat in the gumbo changes frequently) offered the stew-like savory flavors that the soup is famous for, and was filled with spices, minus the kick of the jerk. A pile of yellow rice and fresh scallions rounded out the rich soup, making it a small meal in itself.
Then there were the entrées. I chose the cornmeal-crusted fried catfish, a Southern staple and one of my favorite dishes. The fish itself remained mild, light and flaky on the inside and was gloriously crisped on the outside—no horrible allusions to soggy fish fingers there. I slathered on the dipping sauce, a Cajun variation of tartar sauce that was less acidic and addictively creamy. The two hunks of sweet cornbread disappeared quickly, crumbs and all, perfectly moist and slightly grainy.
My companion’s blackened tilapia was a hodgepodge of flavors and ingredients. The tilapia, like my catfish, was clearly cooked by skilled hands. But the filet was topped with a saucy mélange of celery, tomatoes, peppers, and crawfish—all tasty, but the dish was a bit overwhelming.
Our voracious appetites over-sated, we sent back more than half the food on our plates. This is not a habit of ours. A review of the restaurant by Phantom Gourmet quotes Chef Wayne as saying he doesn’t sell many desserts, and I understand why. Even with my devilish sweet tooth, I couldn’t find room for the tempting sweet potato pie, bread pudding with whiskey sauce, or deep-dish bourbon pecan pie. Maybe next time I’ll have dessert for dinner.•
