As each car pulled up to the fish fry at St. Gabriel the Archangel Catholic Church, Claire White made the “roll down your window” motion with her hand in a sweeping circle, as if she were whisking a sauce. It was Ms. White’s unfortunate job to inform those in the line of cars that were circling the church like sharks that they had run out of fish.
Not that the news should have come as a surprise. It was the first Friday in Lent and New Orleanians were hungry for fish. For the past two years, the traditional Friday fish fry – a staple of the Lent season, during which many Catholics abstain from eating meat on Fridays – had been sidelined by COVID-19, and this year, people were taking no chances.
But even arriving early they were still late. St. Gabriel’s renowned fish fry, an important source of revenue for the church and a point of pride for the parishioners, had run dry. Cars were lined up around the block, and people paced the parking lot, waiting for Godot. Ms. White looked exasperated. At first, she said they would have more fish in a half-hour, and as that time rolled past, she said maybe a half-hour more. But as the resplendent afternoon sun began to soften to pre-dusk golden hues, the arrival of the fish seemed more unlikely.
“We got a new vendor, and we were short on the initial order,” White explained to us. Another car pulled up.
“Not yet,” the driver asked through a partially open window.
“Not yet,” White responded.
“Oh lawd,” said the driver mournfully as he slowly drove off.
“We ordered some more a few days ago, and then 8 o’clock this morning they called and said they’re coming in at 3… ok, and it’s now 4:30 and they’re not here yet,” White lamented.
Another car pulled up. They had been here earlier to no avail.
“We’re out of fish right now — we’re waiting on a delivery — Y’all come back next week, ya hear,” White said, resigning herself to the fact that the fish weren’t coming. It was an inauspicious start to Lent, and the community was not happy.
St. Gabriel the Archangel is in the heart of Gentilly Woods, a working-class neighborhood just west of the Industrial Canal. To the north of it is Pontchartrain Park, which was built as a Black middle class subdivision during Jim Crow segregation. Ms. White grew up in Pontchartrain Park and attended St Gabriel’s (now defunct) elementary school, as did her children. Her roots run deep in this tight-knit community, and having to explain the dearth of fish to friends and neighbors was wearing on her.
“I need a sign,” White chuckled, as she had to tell yet another car why there was no fish.
Jesus fed the masses on five loaves and two fish, but you can’t feed anyone with no fish — so we told Ms. White we would see her next week and decided to look for another fish fry. In the past, almost every church would have a fish fry the first weekend in Lent, but this year, many chose to start the second weekend instead. This was one of the reasons St. Gabriel was overwhelmed with orders. We decided our best bet, based on time and proximity, was to head over to St. Francis Xavier Seelos Church in the Bywater, a short drive towards the river.
On its face, a fish fry is a simple thing. They are all similar, but all slightly different. St. Gabriel’s fish fry – of which we were bereft – is the classic New Orleans style plate: two pieces of fried catfish, potato salad, macaroni and cheese, peas or green beans, a slice of white bread, a piece of lemon pound cake, and a drink, all for $10, served in a Styrofoam clamshell. Some churches even offer seafood gumbo and fried shrimp or oyster po’ boys for their meatless Friday meal.
We arrived at St. Francis Xavier Seelos about 20 minutes before the doors opened. The line for fish soon stretched around the side of the building. The kitchen, housed in a small back building behind the church, was bustling. Orders were being fried, plated, bagged and run to eager customers waiting at the side door. Suzanne Starr, whose late husband John “Bubby” Starr, started the Lenten fish fry at St. Francis Xavier Seelos, said they began frying fish at 4 p.m. in anticipation of their 6 p.m. opening.
“We ran out of fish. We’re waiting on fish now,” Starr said, surveying the line from the kitchen window.
Fortunately, we had managed to secure some plates. While our dining companion Veronica looked for a place outside to eat, we decided to sneak into the kitchen to mingle with the volunteer army of cooks. It was there we learned more about the unique congregation of the church.
“We have four languages here,” said Arthine Powers, one of the volunteer cooks who makes the fish fry happen. “Sign language, Garifuna, English and Spanish.” It is a diverse and inclusive membership — words that are often thrown around for show — but here it is real, and it happened organically. We had to admit to Arthine that we had never heard of the Garifuna before, allowing her to cure us of our ignorance.
On its face, a fish fry is a simple thing. They are all similar, but all slightly different.
The Garifuna, she explained, “were stolen from Africa but jumped ship” and settled in Honduras, “but maintained their language.” She told me this history as she stirred green beans in a sparkling silver Magnalite Dutch oven while others fried fish and dished out macaroni and cheese.
Before he passed away, John Starr – who started the fish fry at the church – was the official fryer. Now that responsibility is shared among a crew of volunteers who have been together since the beginning. His wife Suzanne proudly carries on his tradition.
“It’s a lot of work, but it’s good fun,” Starr said.
Outside, Veronica procured a bench in the garden adjacent to the church. It was twilight now, and slightly chilly. The warm fish plates felt good on our laps, and we ate quietly, surrounded by angels and saints. The fish was well seasoned and crispy, the green beans sufficiently transcending your typical canned beans and the baked macaroni appropriately cheesy. It had been a long time between fish plates, and we felt as if something missing in our spirits had been restored.
Redemption is a tenet of Christianity, and the following week we returned to St. Gabriel to try again; this time we called our order in ahead. When we arrived, the line was easily a hundred deep, snaking through the cafeteria and outside into the parking lot. A few years ago, we could have walked into the cafeteria and ordered without a wait, but not anymore – the word was out.
At the front of the line, Samuel Mouton eyed us suspiciously as we explained our phone order to the man who was taking the money and bagging food. Mouton didn’t wait all this time to be cut in line. But as we talked, he softened his stance. We all agreed this was our favorite fish fry in the city. Soon after we both got our to-go boxes of fish, then went over to the dessert table to choose either a brownie or lemon poundcake. The correct choice is always lemon poundcake.
We bought seven fish plates that day, one for each member of a kitchen staff we work with – folks who dutifully cook but rarely get to eat. If you buy 10 plates at St. Gabriel, you get the 11th one free, not that we need the incentive. But it’s nice to feel appreciated and to share a meal together. And when that meal helps your community, it’s even better.
There is still a tarp covering part of the roof of St. Gabriel, and a few visible holes where Hurricane Ida punched through, wounds waiting to heal. But we are still getting back on our feet here. We still cleave to our traditions. They inform us and help us build. Brick by brick, tile by tile, and plate by plate, we heal.
James CullenJames Cullen
Published on March 28, 2022
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