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“I don’t know if it is going to be the same,” I said to a dining companion as we descended the hill from campus to Louie’s Cafe on the first day in its new location. I started LSU in 1987 and have ever since maintained a low orbit around campus, except for a few years when I left Baton Rouge.

When I returned, the first place I needed to visit was Louie’s. It had stood, gleaming its twenty-four-hour cheery neon against countless final exams, first dates, breakups, post-drunk meals, and pancake breakfasts with my daughter. The little white building with the bar wrapped around its open kitchen, where Frenchie, the head chef, chattered away in his idiomatic stream-of-consciousness gravel; where if you found one of their parking spots open, it was like winning a lottery; where you left smelling a little like onions … that Louie’s was the hub on which my Baton Rouge revolved.

Louie’s Cafe has occupied a number of locations on the outskirts of LSU since 1941, but it had remained at its State Street residence for over a quarter of a century until just a few months ago. How could a place everyone has eaten at for so long be the same in a new spot? It’s like expecting a plant to flower after repotting.

“I figured it up, and we had served six million eggs at that location,” said Fred Simonson, who started as a fry cook there in 1986 and is now the general manager. “You figure about two eggs per order, we’ve fed customers three million times.” It’s difficult calculus to determine how many customers that is. “Some people come every day,” Simonson said. “For some it is every Saturday or once a month or every football game. You get into the rhythm of your customers after a while.”

In the second week of November, Louie’s moved down the block to the site of an old Wendy’s that had finally petered out. Louie’s has outlasted most of its neighbors, including the grocery store that once anchored a shopping center across the street. That area is now rife with chain restaurants designed for student dining budgets, yet Louie’s remains.

The city reacted with surprising immediacy when it was announced in fall 2014 that the lease on neighboring Highland Coffees wasn’t being renewed and, amid public outcry that reached all the way to the BBC, a last-minute deal was reached. One shudders to imagine the ruckus that might be caused if Louie’s were to face a similar situation. “It’s where everybody goes,” said Simonson, discussing the restaurant’s legacy in Baton Rouge. He recalled a customer coming back after many years away. “I knew he was a Mitchell (omelet), no mushrooms.”

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The move to the new location was a smart one. The oversized but underappreciated Wendy’s gives Louie’s a front and back line kitchen, more seats, and—perhaps most notable—more parking. But, I (and every other among the faithful) wondered if it would be the same. When we rounded the hill, I caught a strong whiff of that hash brown aroma intrinsic to the Louie’s experience. I accused Simonson of pumping the smell of potatoes and onions to alert people subliminally to the new location, like it’s rumored that bakeries do with the smell of fresh bread. “We just have a good ventilation system at the new place,” he laughed.

My first impression on taking a seat at the counter is that it is like the old Louie’s but brighter. Gone is the curious beach mural that graced the old location’s walls, replaced by windows on all sides. But otherwise, the red swiveling barstools, the tables, the black-and-white tile, the ubiquitous Louie’s t-shirt on every waitress, each bearing the place’s mustachioed mascot ... it’s all still there.

And then there is Frenchie. Marcus “Frenchie” Cox is the long-running chef and central character to the cast that is Louie’s, carrying on multiple conversations between customers and prep chefs, weaving everything into a tapestry of groan-level puns and self-deprecating wisecracks. Frenchie got his training at Le Cordon Bleu when he was employed by the Air Force and worked a number of kitchen jobs including executive sous chef at Juban’s. “Frenchie’s got some training,” said Simonson. “He can go up in your fridge and come up with something.”

“The menu has been fairly static in the ten years I’ve been general manager. We haven’t taken anything off, and chicken fried steak is something we added …” said Simonson, losing himself for a moment in the mental vortex of running a restaurant. “Some of the recipes have had a little refinement, but for the most part [they’re] as I found them when I started there.”

Therein lies the ultimate appeal of Louie’s. In a Food Network world where everyone is now an armchair Tom Colicchio judging inventiveness and technique, Louie’s food is staggeringly consistent. I experience the same savory splendor of Louie’s hash browns as I did when I first ate there in 1987.

The whole North Gate area has changed dramatically since 1986. “Gone are the days when I could walk over to The Bayou and find a dishwasher, some guy who only had a couple of drinks so far and needed a job that night,” said Simonson, “or, as often happened, find the dishwasher that was supposed to be working.” Now The Bayou is a Reginelli’s; there are no record stores on the block—there were three at one point; and Chimes Street doesn’t have the grit and character it once had. For the most part, the food at Louie’s is all that remains of that era.

In case you are reading this and somehow not already familiar with the menu, Louie’s makes excellent diner food: eggs, pancakes, bacon, sandwiches, burgers, etc. A mountain of hash browns sizzles on the grill awaiting the occasional ting of spatulas giving them a stir. While Louie’s seems out of step with some food trends, it manages to feed just about anybody. As a college vegetarian, Louie’s was a godsend—the only place in Baton Rouge you could get an actual meatless meal. I lived on the Phyllis, the grilled veggie medley topped with melted cheese on a toasted poboy bun.

Now I get a BEST (Bacon, egg, sprouts, tomato) on rye, add jalapeños with hash browns on the side pretty much every time I go. It’s the perfect personal cocktail of a sandwich, the right umami grounding provided by rye toast and sprouts with the tomato and peppers lightening the heft of the egg and bacon. They ask me if I want Crystal or Tabasco (Crystal, if you were wondering.)

“It’s real food,” said Simonson of the perennial appeal of Louie’s. “You want china and real silverware and real food.” It is true; Louie’s is the home cooking for generations of Baton Rougeans; and with the new location, even more of them can get in on a Saturday morning. “We still have people asking about parking, just not as much as we used to.”

So is it the same? Or better? The experience is more for me like when your family moves to a new house. The physical pathways need adjustment, the little details are for a time askew … But ultimately, the thing that made it home comes along for a ride. As Simonson and I departed the coffee shop together, like we have for a quarter of a century, he said, “Come on by for that sandwich.”—knowing full well that I will, again and again.

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