Our server said the restaurant's moniker was changed strictly for business reasons, namely: Richardson is a hotbed of Christianity; voodoo is a religion of sorcery, fetishes and curses; Christians appreciate voodoo about as much as they appreciate "ain't we hip?" artists letting loose with toilet humor all over their sacred artifacts; nobody was coming in, even for the all-you-can-eat Cajun Sunday brunch.
Now there are a lot of things that can be blamed on Christians, but can we really hang Mud Bugs around their blessed necks?
It's hard to see how, given all the shifting that's been going on. Mud Bugs--the name is slang for crawfish--was a restaurant of Cajun delicacies, just as Voodoo was before it. And to that end it proffered mediocre jambalaya and étoufée, plus a host of dreadful entrants including fried Louisiana alligator and crawfish patties, the latter so soft and mushy they threatened to leak.
That's why it's no surprise Mud Bugs underwent another shift, dropping its lunch service and most of its Cajun specialties and subbing them with "bayou burgers," poppers (cheese-filled fried peppers), chicken sandwiches and po boys. Cheese fries, too.
Gumbo has been retained, a thin broth with emaciated shrimp (the only shellfish parcels we could positively identify), rice and weak, dry sausage. The broth had a bit of a pepper flavor, but little else was embraceable.
Bayou burgers are anchored with half-pound patties slipped between a coarse-grained bun to keep the frilled lettuce, tomato, onion and pickle slices company. The charred bayou burgers are thick, and they wink at tastiness, but the patties are stiff and dry and very gray, even if you order them with middles of pink.
Po boy combo, a hoagie spilling over with fried crawdad keisters, shrimp and catfish planks, wasn't slathered with a compelling sauce, or anything for that matter. Instead it came with little paper ramekins of mayonnaise and mustard--more Iowa church picnic than rabble-rousing Cajun. Taste-wise the seafood was adequate: The shrimp were tasty, the tails sweet and the catfish flaky and earthy. Texture-wise it slipped miserably. The fried coatings were sopped and flabby; the fish was mushy.
Red beans and rice was thin and runny and almost void of flavor save for a wisp of smoke, and the Cajun chicken sandwich, a bright orange breast patty reposing on the same bun that held the bayou burger, was a knot of dried, stiff poultry fiber. Was this Chik-fil-A jerky that didn't get a chance to finish?
Yet it's quite possible it really is those pesky Christians and not the food that's keeping this mud flat desolate. For if the House of Voodoo moniker didn't drive them away, the décor certainly would. Sure, it has harmless pedestrian distractions such as countless televisions and a stage where live music is played every Friday and Saturday night. But it has frivolous impieties as well. The room is washed in purple and illuminated with black lights. Crawdads and lobsters are stapled to the rafters. Little shrine areas hold dripping candles. Beads dangle everywhere.
Skulls are painted on the banquette dividers. Skulls and crossbones hang from the walls along with sinister masks, totems and crude crosses. Gator heads, jaws open, teeth nicely flaunted, are on posts throughout the dining room. There's even a small gift shop selling much of the same junk that's on the walls plus an American flag rendered in Christmas lights and angel figurines.
It's difficult to pinpoint what can save this place from another incarnation, but maybe there are clues buried in the décor. Off to one side of the stage next to the bar is a cozily decorated recess with a highly polished, well-tailored dining room table, a homey departure from the rest of the place. A placard indicates this little model home setting is Mud Bugs' chef's table. A simple substitution of "chef's" with "last supper" might bring in some of the voodoo-phobic and get this bug out of the mud.
