On Lent, bars and Saint Julie of Bywater

Lent might seem like an odd time to go to the bar, particularly for those who think of them as solely the domain of drunks. In America, alcohol is probably the second most popular thing for Catholics to abstain from during Lent behind chocolate. During a period when the devout are expected to meditate upon the life and death of Christ and give back to their communities, a bar room might seem like the last place you’d want to be.

But this being New Orleans, we do Lent a little bit differently, and for many of us (Catholic or otherwise) bars are an integral part of the season and a great reminder of what Jesus stood for.

For one thing, our bars aren’t just places to get drunk, though they’re admittedly great for that, too. Whether it’s to see live music, catch up with family and friends or even to find a few blessed moments of peace away from family, plenty of people who don’t drink hang out in bars all across New Orleans.

The current mocktail craze and rise of THC seltzers has also helped weaken the stigma against frequenting bars for folks avoiding booze for health reasons — reopening these vital and energetic spaces of community and fellowship to them.

In fact, many bars are engrained in our Lenten traditions. Between now and Easter, bars across the city will host fish fries every Friday where the devout can break their meatless fast with some of the best fried fish the South has to offer. For decades, New Orleanians have been enjoying these cheap (or often free) Lenten meals, which are an opportunity to enjoy time with neighbors after a hard week of work and consideration of one’s many and myriad sins.

Serving fish on Fridays isn’t a one-off thing for New Orleans bars, of course. They also have a long history of providing food for patrons and neighbors. From beans and rice on Mondays to potlucks and free crawfish boils, bars have been feeding our bellies and souls for generations. And for many, that service to community is a vital part of their lives and diets.

Over the last few years, Lent also reminds me of my friend Julie Kelley. A Bywater resident and longtime bartender and manager at BJ’s, Julie was a fixture in the lives of many of the bar’s regulars and neighbors. Julie was in many ways a walking embodiment of the ideals of kindness, empathy and lending a helpful hand not because some book said to but simply because it was right.

Her charity and kindness came in ways large and small. On more than one occasion, she threw the bike of a certain alt-weekly editor into her truck and delivered it to him after a night of drinking left him unable to pedal. She also helped organized the annual toy drive (which has since been renamed in her honor) for patrons of the “Barmuda Triangle” — J&J’s, Vaughan’s and BJ’s — as well as potlucks for the community.

She also kept a vigilant eye on many of our little community’s older or vulnerable members and made it a point to check in on folks who couldn’t, or for mental health reasons wouldn’t, leave their homes.

Then in 2020, the pandemic hit right as Lent began. The staggering death toll of the early days of the pandemic didn’t just set off citywide lockdowns. As the days turned to weeks and months, it also forced many sick and elderly residents into deep isolation out of fear of infection.

For those without nearby relatives or the economic means or technological know-how to use food delivery apps, that in turn meant a real danger of not being able to eat.

A week or so after the city shut down, I was startled by a knock on my door. First of all, I’d mostly given up on the convention of clothes by then, so I was ambling about in just a sarong and in no mood or state for random visitors. Afterall, my neighborhood in the 7th Ward had been deathly quiet for days — even the nearby Claiborne Bridge was silent. And nobody was ever out on the street.

When I opened the door, I saw Julie standing in the street. Though she was wearing a mask, I could still see that infectious smile of hers in the eyes.

Waving, she hollered, “I made you a mask and brought ya some food!” I looked down and there was a mask made of fabric with a Stormtrooper’s faceplate on it and a couple containers worth of food. When I thanked her, she explained she was just trying to make sure everybody from the bar was OK and had something to eat.

It was a small thing, sure, but in that moment, I felt some amount of hope. It showed me that out there, beyond my increasingly cramped feeling home, the best parts of life were surviving.

Julie, along with her sister Lisa, passed away in the summer of 2022. And while her death has left a permanent hole in our community, her spirit of kindness and generosity lives on in the people and the place at BJ’s.