2010: The Flaky Ephemera of Hubig's Pies

Editor's Note: This story was published in April 2010, just two years before a catastrophic fire would raze the Hubig's factory to the ground. In our December 2022 issue, we celebrated the return of the beloved pies to New Orleans shelves with the launch of the brand's new Jefferson Parish Facility. Read that story here: Pie-Eyed—A decade after the pie factory burned down, Hubig’s returns to New Orleans. 

This story was selected by the Country Roads magazine editorial team as the representative piece for 2010 in the archival project "40 Stories From 40 Years"—celebrating the magazine's 40th anniversary on stands. Click here to read more stories from the project. 

Its pearly, frosted coating peeks out from a waxed-paper, fireworks-stand colored wrapper. It rests there in the palm of your hand, the crescent-shaped empanada of authentic New Orleans' citizenship, the fried badge of intimacy with the Big Easy—the Hubig's Pie. It is one of several enthusiastically devoured local delicacies, the sweet confection for a place that jealously guards its traditions and homegrown products. According to production manager and third-generation pie man, Andrew Ramsey, the Hubig's factory kneads, stuffs, fries and glazes twenty-five thousand individual pies per day. Almost all are shipped within an hour's drive of the city. 

But, like many treasured icons of that city, it is neither wholly local nor originally exclusive. Simon Hubig came from the Basque country between Spain and France, setting up a factory in the Faubourg-Marigny in 1922 and his franchise bakeries were scattered around the southeast. 

But as with Mardi Gras (which the citizens of Biloxi never tire of pointing out, was celebrated in that coastal city before the first doubloon was ever tossed out over a crowded Canal Street) the Hubig's Pie really came into its own in New Orleans. Yes, Houston had a Hubig's bakery but they seem to have traded it in for sopapilla stands. This Mexican cousin of the beignet may be a tantalizing dessert, but it is no Hubig's Pie. For sheer utility, humble portability and declasse convenience, nothing beats this sweet treat. 

On the cool winter's afternoon that I visited their facility in the 2700 block of Dauphine, lemon pies were rolling off of the assembly line. Words like facility and assembly line may conjure the image of banks of robotic arms injecting fruity filling and spraying sugary glaze like so much automotive paint, but Hubig's is really just a modestly sized bakery. The cast iron wheel that stamps out the familiar capital-D shaped pies has been in use since the first Hubig's Pie was sold in New Orleans in 1922. This means that every pie ever eaten by man, woman or child in that languid city has been stamped by the same pastry cutter. No change since day one. The Hubig's Pie was, is and ever shall be in that enduring form. 

The pies are formed from a strip of dough, kneaded on site, that is folded around each of the fillings they are making that day. They pass through the cutter and then are laid, pale and raw, on a wire conveyor that carries them through the fryer. Pies emerge golden, blistered and flaky. On through a cascade of opalescent glaze they trundle, and then to the two-hour cooling carousel. Finally, their sweet march complete, the pies are wrapped and readied for shipment. 

If all this seems like too much saccharine twaddle over a bit of portable junk food then consider the care given to each pie. Certain cream-filled, yellow sponge cakes are anecdotally expected to survive the end times. Each Hubig's Pie bears a date, one week from its baking, by which it must either be consumed or returned to its maker on Dauphine Street. Uncluttered with preservatives, the Hubig's Pie is real food, like an indulgent aunt would make for a holiday meal. 

The day of my visit a large kettle of sweet potato filling cooled in a corner, smelling every bit like cinnamon and home. Ramsey and company buy their sweet potatoes, the big, fancy variety, from growers in north Louisiana. Likewise, the blueberries and strawberries come from our local soils. Everything that can be gotten nearby is carefully sourced from regional producers.

The Hubig's Pie is like so many other things from the peculiar city of New Orleans. It is a bit of agonized over ephemera, like a lovingly crafted costume or float, good for one glorious day. Or, the flesh of the oyster, rushed from its brackish bed to a bar top sticky with beer. Any interruption in its journey, any jump in temperature and the fragile subtlety is gone. This is where the city is at its best, full of energy and lust for the moment; tomorrow's efforts are tomorrow's concerns. Hubig's Pies may be thin on the ground come the next cataclysm but that may be the point. Most things are just better without worry over the future or long shelf-life chemical stabilizers. So, eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we may have no pie. 

Frank McMains is a Baton Rouge based writer and photographer who focuses on food, travel and cultural peculiarity.