Reader Bites: Peacemaker po’boy at Daisy’s Po-Boy and Tavern

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Reader Bites: Peacemaker po'boy at Daisy's Po-Boy and Tavern


You know how it goes. You’re in dutch with your better half for staying out too late, drinking too many Yoo-hoos, chasing too many fireflies. There must be some kind of offering you can make to ensure your homecoming is peaceful, and that you won’t be sleeping on the couch. Something on bread . . . with beef . . . and fried seafood.

That’s merely one version of the New Orleans urban legend that’s grown up around the peacemaker, a surf and turf po’boy with as many variations as its origin story.

Typically it has that rich debris, the slurry of juices and beefy bits that fall from a roast, bedded on a fluffy, crackly baguette, with shredded lettuce, tomato, pickles, mayo, and either fried shrimp or oysters—a sandwich that gives new meaning to the term “marital aid.”

an illustration of a po'boy sandwich with a blue and white broken stripe background
Daisy’s peacemaker po’boy Credit: cori nakamura lin | onibaba studio

Just around the corner from Erick Williams’s Virtue, Daisy’s, his NOLA-inspired sports bar, offers a peacemaker that seems like a capable bedroom diplomat.

With shaved beef and a restrained application of gravy, it holds its form better than a typically sloppy debris po’boy. That’s also because, after arduous research on the ground in the Big Easy, Williams chose to build his with hard-fried oysters.

“We ate some amazing peacemakers made with oysters,” he says. “That style stood out to us most. We could have done shrimp, but I liked the texture of oysters more.”

Me too. On a couple occasions at Daisy’s, I asked for a regular beef po’boy topped with fried shrimp. This ad hoc version has a nice snap that unfortunately tends to disintegrate the whole affair—and perhaps your own fragile situationship.

On Williams’s peacemaker, boarded on NOLA’s Leidenheimer baguettes, the bivalves’ crunch yields to their briny, lush softness but also helps keep the veg from slipping overboard in a sloppy mayo slide.

Splash some tangy Crystal cayenne magic on the proceedings and you have a proper olive branch, available in six or 12 inches, depending on the seriousness of your offenses.


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Mike Sula (he/him) is a senior writer, food reporter, and restaurant critic at the Chicago Reader. He’s been a staffer since 1995.

His story about outlaw charcuterie appeared in Best Food Writing 2010. His story “Chicken of the Trees,” about eating city squirrels, won the James Beard Foundation’s 2013 M.F.K. Fisher Distinguished Writing Award. “The Whole Hog Project,” and “What happens when all-star chefs get in bed with Big Food?” were nominated for JBF Awards.

He’s the author of the anthology An Invasion of Gastronomic Proportions: My Adventures with Chicago Animals, Human and Otherwise, and the editor of the cookbook Reader Recipes: Chicago Cooks and Drinks at Home.

His work has appeared in the Chicago Tribune, the Chicago Sun-Times, NPR’s The Salt, Dill, Harper’s, Plate Magazine, Rolling Stone, and Eater. He’s the former editor in chief of Kitchen Toke.

He lives in Chicago and is the curator of Monday Night Foodball, a weekly chef pop-up hosting Chicago’s most exciting underground and up-and-coming chefs.

Sula speaks English and can be reached on X.

More by Mike Sula



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