You’re standing on a cracked sidewalk in the Irish Channel, the humid New Orleans air sticking to your neck, and you’re looking at a cinderblock building that looks more like a converted auto shop than a culinary temple. There is no valet. There are no white tablecloths. There is, however, a line of people snaking around the corner of Jackson Avenue, all waiting for a bologna sandwich.
It sounds like a joke. Honestly, it kind of is.
When Turkey and the Wolf first blew up back in 2017—after Bon Appétit called it the best new restaurant in America—half the city cheered and the other half rolled their eyes so hard they nearly saw their own brains. "It’s just gas station food," the skeptics said. They weren't entirely wrong. Chef Mason Hereford, the mastermind behind the chaos, grew up on gas station snacks and rollerblades in rural Virginia. But to dismiss this place as "just" a sandwich shop is to miss the point of why it’s still packed in 2026.
The Bologna Sandwich That Broke the Internet
Let's talk about the Fried Bologna.
If you grew up in the South, or basically anywhere in mid-century America, you know the sad version of this. Thinly sliced, rubbery meat, a squirt of yellow mustard, and white bread that sticks to the roof of your mouth. Mason’s version is a middle finger to that memory while simultaneously being a love letter to it.
He uses thick-cut bologna from Leighann’s, a local butcher. It’s seared until the edges are crispy and the middle is fatty and warm. Then comes the "shrettuce" (shredded iceberg), a heavy-handed swipe of Duke’s mayo, and a house-made hot mustard recipe borrowed from a friend’s mom. The kicker? He shoves a handful of vinegar-brined potato chips inside.
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The crunch is loud. It's messy. You're going to get mayo on your shirt.
But there’s a technical precision here that people overlook. The bread isn't just "bread"—it's a specific thick-cut Texas toast style, buttered and griddled to a very specific level of golden brown. It’s $13 or $14 for a sandwich that looks like something a stoner threw together at 2:00 AM, but it tastes like a three-star chef decided to finally stop caring about what the critics think and just cook what makes him happy.
It’s Not Just About the Meat
New Orleans is a sandwich town. You have the muffuletta at Central Grocery and the endless parade of po-boys at Parkway or Domilise’s. Breaking into that hierarchy with a non-traditional menu was a ballsy move.
The Collard Green Melt is arguably better than the bologna. It’s slow-cooked collards, Swiss cheese, pickled cherry pepper dressing, and coleslaw on rye. It’s tangy, salty, and weirdly meaty for a vegetarian sandwich. It’s the kind of dish that makes you realize why this place gets so much hype.
Then there’s the Cabbage Salad.
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Normally, ordering a salad at a place known for fried meat feels like a mistake. Not here. It’s a mountain of crunch: lemongrass, roasted chiles, sunflower seeds, fried garlic, and pig ear cracklins. It’s a texture bomb.
Why the "Haters" Are Partially Right
If you go to Turkey and the Wolf expecting a "fine dining" experience because you saw it in a magazine, you will be disappointed. You’re going to sit on a plastic chair. You might eat off a plate decorated with 1980s cartoons. The music is loud. The staff is having more fun than you are.
Some locals find it pretentious in its lack of pretension. They’ll tell you to go to a real po-boy shop instead. And you should! You should go to Guy’s Po-Boys or Stein’s Deli. But Turkey and the Wolf isn't trying to replace those institutions. It’s a playground.
The Mason Hereford Philosophy
Mason Hereford didn't just stumble into this. He was the chef de cuisine at Coquette, one of the most respected upscale restaurants in the city. He knows how to cook "fancy." He just chose not to.
He wanted to build a place where the barrier to entry was low but the quality was high. That’s why the cocktails are served in mismatched glassware and why there’s a stuffed raccoon on the wall. It’s a rejection of the "serious" food culture that often drains the joy out of eating.
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"We try to keep a sense of humor about it," Mason once said in an interview. The sign on the door literally says "people hate us on Yelp."
That self-awareness is part of the brand. It’s why people keep coming back. It’s not just the food; it’s the vibe of a never-ending backyard barbecue where the host happens to be a culinary genius.
Logistics for Your Visit
If you’re planning to go, don't be a rookie.
- Check the hours: They are generally a lunch-only spot, usually 11:00 AM to 4:00 PM, and they're closed on Tuesdays.
- Embrace the line: If you get there at noon on a Saturday, expect to wait. Grab a drink and lean into the people-watching.
- The "Other Stuff": Don't sleep on the specials or the deviled eggs with fried chicken skin.
- Parking: It’s the Irish Channel. Parking is a nightmare. Take a rideshare or be prepared to walk a few blocks.
What to Do Next
If you’ve already tackled the bologna sandwich and you’re looking for more of that Mason Hereford energy, head over to Molly’s Rise and Shine for breakfast. It’s nearby and applies the same nostalgic, slightly chaotic energy to biscuits and hash browns. Or, if you want something a bit more "adult," check out Hungry Eyes on Magazine Street—it’s Mason’s newer spot that feels like an 80s nightclub had a baby with a wine bar.
New Orleans is changing, and while the old-school Creole grand dames will always be the backbone of the city, places like Turkey and the Wolf are proving that there’s room for the weird, the messy, and the unashamedly fun.
Pro Tip: Buy the cookbook, Turkey and the Wolf: Flavor Trippin' in New Orleans. Even if you never cook a single thing out of it, the stories and the photography are worth the price alone. Plus, it makes a great coffee table book that tells people you know where to get a good sandwich.
Head to the Irish Channel. Get the melt. Get the bologna. Bring extra napkins.