It’s Friday at Little People’s Place in the Tremé, and that means fried fish. Rodney Thomas carries a tray laden with freshly battered shrimp and catfish fillets out the bar door to his provisional fry station, a well-worn propane burner with a heavily seasoned cast-iron dutch oven on top.
The oil inside the dutch oven begins to shimmer and circulate, and Thomas drops a pinch of the seasoned fish fry into the cauldron-like pot to see if the oil is hot enough. A quick sizzle confirms it is, and Thomas begins to nimbly slip the shrimp and catfish into the hot oil, which bubbles vigorously. A few feet away under the plywood awning that covers the entrance to the bar, a group of men are watching daytime television on a small flatscreen TV sitting on an outdoor table – today it’s Divorce Court – while slowly sipping beers. The men have all known each other and Mr. Rodney for a long time, and they take turns ribbing each other and Thomas, who is doing double duty as the bartender and the cook while he waits for Ms. Rochelle, the bartender, to arrive from bingo.
“I ordered a bag of chips and a Budweiser twenty-five minutes ago, Rodney,” one of the men gently chides.
“It’s coming,” Thomas says smiling, unfazed. His gold teeth catch the reflection of the sun. It’s sultry and the heat emanating off the burner only adds to it.
Thomas carefully turns the fillets with a set of tongs, and then proceeds to go back inside the bar. He returns with a bag of Zapp’s potato chips and a Budweiser.
Inside the bar, on a folding table with a red-checkered plastic tablecloth, sit six white styrofoam to-go boxes with their lids open. Thomas begins to scoop a creamy, mustardy, yellow potato salad into each box, and then places a slice of white bread and a cookie in each box as well. The bread absorbs the oil and humidity from the fried seafood and keeps it crispy, and it works as a sandwich bread in a pinch. There is a crockpot with smothered green peas on the table as well, but the peas won’t be added to the box until the fish and shrimp are.
Thomas returns to his outdoor fry station with a sheet tray covered in newspaper, and begins to gently fish the now golden brown catfish and shrimp out of the hot oil. The newspaper quickly becomes translucent as the tray fills up with fresh Louisiana seafood. Fried fish on Fridays finds its roots in the Catholic tradition of meatless meals on Lenten Friday, but at many neighborhood bars like Little People’s Place the tradition is carried on throughout the year.
Thomas carries the tray back inside the bar and adds the remaining components to the to-go boxes. A fish plate is $7, while a combo plate with fish and shrimp is $12. He carries three boxes to a small table adjacent to the bar where a man and two women sit. They bear the countenance of hungry people who have waited too long.
“You tell Rochelle that I don’t care about bingo! On fish fry Fridays she has to be at work at twelve,” the woman says, only half joking.
She opens up the clamshell container and lets the smell wash over her before plunging her plastic fork into the potato salad.
“You want hot sauce?” Thomas asks, and places the bottle of Crystal (a Louisiana brand that’s been around since 1923) on the table before she can respond.
A minute later Ms. Rochelle walks through the door and catches hell from the two patrons at the bar as well as the those at the table. It’s all in good fun. It’s more of a family gathering than a bar.
Little People’s Place is one of the last remaining bars in the Tremé, the oldest Black neighborhood in America, and one of the most culturally significant neighborhoods in the world. This is the place that birthed jazz, second lines, and the Black Masking Indian culture that the city is renowned for. At one point the Tremé boasted roughly 30 bars, but now, due to hurricanes, rising rents, demographic changes and gentrification, only boasts a few. Before Hurricane Katrina, Little People’s Place was a renowned music venue, with big talents belying the small size of the bar. Trombone Shorty, James Andrews, Glen David Andrews, Kermit Ruffins, The Rebirth Brass Band, Corey Henry and countless other New Orleans legends were regular performers there. But after Katrina, the Tremé quickly gentrified and Little People’s was named a nuisance bar by newcomers to the area unfamiliar with the vibrant cultural scene. Eventually a compromise was struck and the bar is now allowed to operate with limited hours and no live music, although occasionally a brass band will pop up.
“My family has owned the bar since 1942,” Thomas says. “Ms. Gladys Thomas, my great grandma, was the first owner.”
And where does the bar get its name? The “little people” in question are the Thomases.
“I’m 5’7” and I’m the tallest one,” Thomas half-laments.
A man in a motorized scooter pulls up and offers us some hog’s head cheese that he had made that morning. It is spicy, and slightly gelatinous. Little People’s Place is more like a clubhouse or a community center than anything else. A touchstone in the community, where we gather early on Mardi Gras morning to see the Skull and Bone Gang or sit outside sipping cold beers as fish fries, barroom music booms, and laughter rises up.
The small bar, which only seats four, and the three small tables, are all filled up now. “Big Poppa” by The Notorious B.I.G. comes on over the speaker and Mr. Rodney ad libs “I love it when you call me Big Rodney” to the lyrics.
He places two fish plates in front of us, and Rochelle drops off a cold Michelob Ultra and a vodka cranberry for us. Rodney comes back with a bottle of hot sauce and leaves it on the table.
We lift our drinks, and then tap the table with them to honor our ancestors, in true New Orleans fashion. In a way, the whole existence of Little People’s Place is a tribute to the ancestors of the Tremé, those that blessed us with this rich food and culture.
We open our boxes, gently breaking the crispy fish with our plastic forks. The fish is irresistibly crispy, perfectly seasoned and tender. And the cold beer is a perfect accompaniment. The potato salad is tangy and spiked with dill pickle relish and yellow mustard, and the peas are plump and sweet. It’s comfort food brought to a whole new level of comfort, food that not only nourishes but grounds you in a sense of place and time.
Behind the bar an analog clock tells the time. But at Little People’s Place time isn’t kept on the clock, but by the sounds of barroom crooners like Mel Waiters singing “The smaller the club, the bigger the party” and about “the hole in the wall,” and through the laughter and stories of its patrons. It’s told by the clinking of beer bottles raised in celebration and sometimes sorrow. It’s told through weathered photos on the wall, some of people long since gone and some who are still with us. It’s told through food and friendships that transcend time, and the clock itself becomes a novelty, as inside these walls, we have all the time in the world.
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