Buster Holmes’ Bar and Restaurant. One of the ten best underground restaurants in New Orleans. Red Beans and Rice – $1.00.

I read the poster tacked on the telephone pole until my stare went blank. The picture of a fat, smiling man wearing thick plastic glasses and a white apron remained in my mind.

I dug deeply into my pocket and felt for loose change; I had about two dollars. “What the hell,” I said to myself. “I need a good meal.” Red beans and rice would make my stomach dance after I had been eating peanut butter, crackers and granola ever since I hit the road two days earlier. I checked my city map – 721 Burgundy – it was in the north part of the French Quarter – about 12 blocks away. “Fair enough hike for a cheap meal,” I thought. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and threw my hitchhiking sign stating “NEW ORLEANS” in the garbage.

The sun had long ago sunk into the West and only pools of light from street lamps existed. A strong breeze blew in my face. I shivered. It was cold for New Orleans, especially for April.

I came to the famous Bourbon Street and decided to walk its length. Barricades prevented cars from travelling the road. I walked down the center of the street, watching the activities on both sides of me.

A small group of people formed a circle ahead of me. I stepped on the curb and saw the center attraction. A black boy with his face painted white was tap dancing wildly to the music of a juke box in a nearby bar. The music was complimented with the occasional clinking of coins in a hat the boy had put in front of him.

I saw very few locals, most of the people were wealthy tourists. A gray-haired man dressed in a suit and tie walked toward me singing loudly and carelessly. He carried a Hurricane, a popular New Orleans alcoholic drink, in his hands. He walked by, ignoring me, and staggered toward a bar. He tripped on the curb sprawling himself and his drink on the sidewalk. He was probably the president of some corporation.

I walked on. “Get your hands out of your pocket, fella, and come in here for some real action.” A man was yelling at me. He stood in a doorway surrounded by posters of naked women and the words “Girls, Girls, Girls.”  I looked at him with a blank stare, kept my hands in my pockets and walked on.

Music filled the air. I stopped at an open bar and enjoyed real New Orleans Jazz. Drunk and affluent tourists were plentiful. I didn’t mix well with them, so I left.

“See the most beautiful men in the world,” another hawker yelled. He pointed to a poster of “women” and said they were men. I wasn’t interested.

The noise, lights and commotion began to fade. I checked my map and walked to another street.

Burgundy St. I checked the house numbers. I was on the 900 block. I walked down the street. It was dark and narrow. Ornate iron bars protected the windows of the homes that the French had built many years ago. I looked ahead and saw no activity. I began to have doubts about Buster Holmes’ Restaurant and Bar. It probably catered to the type of people I saw on Bourbon Street: wealthy tourists. I wasn’t dressed for an elegant restaurant. My moccasins were muddy, my jeans were stained with dirt and my shirt was wrinkled. The beans and rice would be cheap, but they’d nail me for drinks and aide orders. 800 block. No sign of any restaurant. I didn’t see any tourists. I started thinking “underground restaurant”? Was it run by a secret society? I stopped and hesitated. I pushed myself on; it would be an interesting experience.

700 Block. I followed the numbers down. 721. I looked up and saw a sign “Buster Holmes’ Bar And Restaurant.” I checked it with what I had written in my notebook. This was the place.

I looked at it from the other side of the street. It was an old brick building, dimly lit and little activity.

 I walked across the street. A blackboard stood outside the door. “Red beans and rice-$1.00 was written on it. I opened the door and walked in. I sat on a stool at the bar next to a white man.

He slumped over his plate and continued to eat without pause using his knife to slide the grains of rice onto his fork.

I glanced behind me and saw a table with the chairs stacked on it. Two black boys were sitting at a table playing cards. I watched through the corner of my eye and the man sitting next to me, learning what to do. I looked ahead and saw the poster with the fat, smiling black man. It was the only poster or sign in the room. The white walls were covered with dirt. Paint was peeling off the wall and I could see long cracks. I didn’t look any further for fear of finding cockroaches and rats. The room was quiet. Two overhead fans circulated the stuffy air.

“You’ve been waited on, mister?” A boy stood in front of me. He wasn’t white, he wasn’t black, he was something in between.

“No, I’ll have beans and rice.” I tried to act like I had been in there before. I turned around and watched the boys play cards. In a minute the boy was back and dropped a plastic plate in front of me.

“You want somethin’t to drink?” He didn’t talk in a southern accent, he didn’t talk in a Negro accent, but in an accent of his own.

“Just water,” I said. A big helping of white rice filled my plate. A scoop of red beans in a heavy sauce lay on the side.

I didn’t have any silverware, so I picked up two grains of rice and put it in my mouth. The boy came back with a fork and knife. I wiped the fork off on my shirt.

I mixed the beans and rice together like the man beside me and began eating. It was a lukewarm, insipid combination. I slowly chewed the food and stared at the poster. A girl brought me a basket of old and hard French bread and margarine.

The man beside me left. I looked at his plate and noticed he left a quarter tip. The door slammed behind him and instantly the three boys pounced on his quarter.

“I took his order,” one boy yelled.

“Hey, man, I brought the bread,” another boy yelled as he tried to force open the fist of the first boy.

“Give it to me, man, Buster said I could have it,” the third boy screamed.

The girl, who looked a bit older than the boys came out from the kitchen and hit a wooden spoon on the bar. “Quit your your fightin’. Give me that quarter.” One of the boys brought the quarter to her then returned to his card game.

I continued eating, pretending not to notice the fight. I saw that I was the only customer and the only white person in the bar. I looked in the kitchen and saw a fat black man with thick plastic glasses. He wasn’t smiling. I looked at the poster. It was Buster Holmes.

The boys started fighting over their card game and began to swing fists. My rice and beans were cold.

The girl came out and yelled. “You boys git in here and do these dishes.”

The boys yelled back. “Shit, man, I did them last night. How come you don’t have to do them?” A battle pursued; the girl won.

The girl came over to me and smiled. “Done with this?” I nodded and she took my empty bread basket.

I reached the bottom of my rice and uncovered a stained and scratched plastic plate. I pressed my fork on a grain of rice and forced it between the tines. My plate was empty.

I didn’t think the service was worthy of a tip, but nevertheless I left a quarter for fear that the boys would gang up on me.

I looked the place over once more, grabbed my bag and walked out the door. I stood outside the door for a moment and listened to the boys fight over my tip. I smiled, drew in a deep breath of the cool New Orleans air and walked down an abandoned street.

NOTE: I wrote this story in 1979 using language and beliefs which were acceptable at the time. I have only lightly edited it.

2025 POSTSCRIPT: Buster Holmes’ Bar and Restaurant holds a significant place in the culinary and cultural history of New Orleans. Established in 1960, it became renowned for its Creole soul food, particularly its red beans and rice. It was more than just a place to eat; it was a communal gathering spot that welcomed a diverse clientele, including laborers, artists, musicians and tourists. Louis Armstrong and Fats Domino played there. Buster Holmes was a beloved figure, known for his generosity and for fostering an inclusive atmosphere. The restaurant operated until the early 1980s, closing as Holmes approached retirement. Although attempts were made to franchise the concept, they were unsuccessful. Buster passed away in 1994, fittingly on a Monday—the traditional day for serving red beans and rice in New Orleans.​ I visited on a Saturday night and it just seem like a dead and dumpty place to me. Guess I hit it on an off night.