Those of you who have read this column for any length of time know that I'm not fond of chain restaurants in general. In past columns, I've extolled the virtues of finding the small places, the local joints where the best food is found and where neon signs are limited to the free ones behind the bar supplied by beer distributors.

So what in the name of all that is good, holy and edible was I doing standing in front of a chain restaurant the Saturday before Thanksgiving, waiting to go inside and see the operation?

I'd love to give you an easy answer, but there isn't one. Maybe it was the tone of Karin Wacaser, the PR person who had contacted me. Maybe it was the fact that Razzoo's, the restaurant I was about to enter, purported to offer Cajun food, which is some of my favorite on Earth.

Or maybe it's that the manager was named Scott. In my experience, guys named Scott usually churn out some pretty good grub.

In any event, I entered the back door and immediately heard a muffled din that took me back to my first restaurant job in the kitchen of a Hooter's: the sound of morning prep. Anyone who's worked a cook line knows the components of that peculiar song, the myriad thunks and bangs that tell a good manager that things are progressing well and the restaurant will be ready to open.

What I did not hear was the beep of a microwave or any other noise indicating pre-fab food was being brought up to serving temperature. Instead, there were simmering pots of sauces and gravies, cutting boards being put to furious use and all the other activities that lead to you getting your lunch or dinner in a timely manner.

Scott Dowd, the manager, first escorted me to the walk-in cooler, where we retrieved two turkeys that had been marinating overnight and had a date with the deep-fryer. Like many restaurants this time of year, Razzoo's sells fried turkeys for takeout. Unlike most of the rest, they do theirs properly. I won't reveal their cooking process, but it's somewhat unconventional and yields the most tender fried bird I've ever set my teeth into.

Scott, in spite of his last name, comes from a long line of Italian cooks, and has an honest love for the art of turning out good food. While the turkey cooked, he regaled me with stories of gathering at his grandmother's house for the yearly tomato-processing party, when the whole family would pitch in to make jar after jar of tomato sauce to be put down cellar for use through the year. His culinary heritage is solid, and his knowledge of what it takes to make a good restaurant is unquestionable.

I've written at great length about fried turkey in past columns, and it's something I make at home every Thanksgiving (and more often, if I can manage it). Standing on the line at Razzoo's, helping Scott drop the first bird into the oil, took me back to my very first fried bird, which was done in the same type of industrial-size vat fryer. Then, as I reminisced, "The Circle of Life" began playing in the back of my mind and I had to find some food to distract myself.

Fortunately, there was food in abundance, as Scott was determined to give me a full tour of the menu. For starters, I sampled fried 'gator tail. Yes, real alligator. You may have heard that 'gator tastes like chicken, and that's not too far from the mark. However, with the seasonings Razzoo's uses, any resemblance to chicken nuggets disappears and you're left with something completely unique and tasty.

Next came fried pickles. Until that moment, the best fried pickles I'd ever had were made at Katz's Deli, in Houston's Lower Westheimer district. Barry Katz's "spears of wonder" were the pinnacle of pickle perfection. He has now been dethroned. (I still love you for your challah French toast, Barry.)

Then came the sauces. In quick succession, I sampled andouille sausage cream gravy, red beans and rice, creole cream sauce and several others. Other than a jalapeno cheese sauce that, to my palate, needed a speck more salt, they were all outstanding. I could eat that andouille cream gravy on corn flakes and be happy.

Part of the secret to the sauces is that the Razzoo's recipes stay true to Cajun cooking. If a sauce needs butter, they use butter. If a sauce needs bacon fat, it's in there. This may not be diet food, but it's worth the calories, as opposed to the 2,000-calorie cheese fries peddled by certain other chains.

I'll stop here with the menu tour, because it's time to talk about beer. Razzoo's has an impressive array of beers on tap including, wonder of wonders, my beloved Shiner Bock. One tap is devoted to Gator Punch, which as you might suspect is of the "trashcan punch" species. One taste of it would have taken me back down Memory Lane, if I could actually remember most of the times I've ingested such substances.

I've lived in Louisiana, and been to many authentic Cajun stomp joints, restaurants and back-bayou gatherings. While the real thing has a vibe that nothing outside shouting distance of the Atchafalaya Basin could ever duplicate exactly, Razzoo's does a fine job of giving those not blessed in the bayou a taste of what they're missing.

So, am I softening when it comes to my attitude about chain restaurants in general? Come back next week, dear readers, and you'll see, when we visit one of the "premier" seafood houses.

Got a question? Comment? Topic you'd like to see covered? Drop me a line, anytime!