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Xy and I were at Tyler’s for beer and 10 cent oysters — typical Monday night. We met an old-time local guy who had last set foot in the bar back in 1967, roundabouts the time I was being born. We talked about how things had changed since then. One thing he said that struck me: “I can’t tell if this is a white bar or a black bar. And that’s a good thing.”

Published inNew Orleans


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