Penance and La Bouche Creole
by: Richard S. Clifton

Saturday Ramblins, Vol. 2, No. 8 (April 17, 1999)

A few weeks ago, my editor sent me to New Orleans to do a couple of interviews for an article I was writing. Naturally, I wasn't going to leave without one good visit with our Angel Friend, Papa Jon. Since I was tied up most of the day Thursday with interviews, we agreed to meet for lunch on Friday.

Being two hungry Catholics on a Lenten Friday, Jon took me to a little restaurant called The Creole Catfish. We each had a plate of the best fried catfish I've ever eaten: tender, juicy, and fried to perfection in a light batter.

As we ate, we spoke of the Catholic practice of abstaining from meat on Fridays in Lent. Both of us remember the pre-Vatican II days when every Friday was meatless. We agreed if we never saw another tuna casserole, it would be too soon.

Stuffed full of catfish, we parted at the restaurant. I had one more interview to complete before catching a flight home. That interview, however, ran long and I had to cancel the flight.

Naturally, I called Jon. He picked me up at the hotel and we headed out for dinner. Now Jon knows New Orleans food and restaurants like some men know sports cars. We headed to the Ponchartrain lakefront where there are a row of some of the best seafood restaurants (including the oldest, Bruning's) in the country. We went to Bruning's.

During our meal of crab cakes, flounder stuffed with shrimp and crabmeat, oysters on the half shell and boiled shrimp, we once again discussed the practice of abstinence on Lenten Fridays as penance and sacrifice. About half way through this conversation, something struck me. "Whoa! Wait! Hold the phone, Jon!" I exclaimed as I surveyed this great feast before us.

"What?" he asked while reaching for another fried soft-shell crab.

"If abstaining from meat is supposed to be a penance or a sacrifice, where the heck is it in the middle of this feast? How is this suffering?"

Papa's eyes flashed a little smile as he said sheepishly, "Well, they didn't bring enough tarter sauce."

On the flight home it occurred to me that if the Pope knew what was going on in New Orleans on Lenten Fridays, he might just want to rethink the whole thing. Let's pray that he never finds out.