Friends Remember Photographer, Writer, and Cook Pableaux Johnson

New Orleans photographer, writer, and maker of red beans and rice Pableaux Johnson died following a heart attack January 26 at age 59. 

Johnson worked primarily as a photographer, but used his camera and cooking skills to forge connections with people across the country. He was known for the smoked turkey gumbo he made after collecting turkey carcasses from friends after Thanksgiving, a tradition that earned him the nickname “Gumbo Claus.” And the weekly Monday night red beans and rice dinners he hosted at his New Orleans home were the origin of dozens of stories shared after news spread of his death.

Those soulful, occasionally rowdy evenings gathered around his dining table were infamous for the shouts of laughter as Johnson flipped a cast-iron pan of cornbread into the air (to ensure both sides crisped up with butter), then exchanged hugs with friends old and new. Cell phones were forbidden; it was more important to focus on the moment as he served red beans and poured glasses of whiskey for dessert. 

“Red beans and rice, our traditional Monday repast, represents one of the city’s ever-present weekly menu options,” he wrote for Food & Wine when sharing his recipe. “Historically tied to pre-modern domestic routines — when ‘laundry day’ meant washboard work and a trip to the river — red beans and rice developed as a hearty, low-maintenance meal that simmered slowly over a banked fire, often flavored with hambone from the previous Sunday’s sit-down supper. Done right, red beans and rice is a bowl of comforting, sustaining goodness that takes the edge off the always-premature demise of a good weekend.”

Food & Wine executive features editor Kat Kinsman remembers those Monday night dinners as equal parts food and joy. “I can’t even remember how many times I sat at that table, and how hard I laughed and thought something pretty close to what it said on one of the magnets of his I have on the fridge: ‘Ain’t we lucky?’”

“I became close with him in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina,” says writer, filmmaker, and cookbook author Lolis Eric Elie about Johnson. “He’d bought an old church. It wasn’t very large, but it became a gathering place for us, since many of us couldn’t get back into the city. His community was people of different races and geography. It was bartenders and second line folks. He just cared about people, and for people.” 

Johnson collapsed while photographing the Ladies and Men of Unity second line parade, according to Nola.com, and died at a local hospital shortly after. He was a regular fixture at New Orleans second lines, the parades featuring a brass band followed by a crowd of people dancing, that traditionally take place after weddings and funerals. He often photographed Black Masking Indians among other participants, returning the following week to pass out prints, and shared profits from print sales with the subjects. He created two documentaries about the culture of Black Masking Indians at second lines, and published three books about food and its place in New Orleans’ culture.  

At the Southern Foodways Alliance (SFA) fall symposium and other events, Johnson was often seen snapping portraits of people, whether he’d known them for years or they had just met. Then, with a grin, he shared the prints when he spotted them the following day.

“He blew through town one year for SFA, and we had an instant connection,” says chef Vishwesh Bhatt. “He said, ‘Hey, I’m Pableaux,’ and stuck a camera in my face. By the end of the night, we were friends, with an open invitation for me to go to his house for red beans and rice, and for him to come to my house. He’d stay in touch, text me a photo of myself or friends, stop by for a drink, or send a playlist he thought I’d like. Every time, whether it was a text or visit, he would make me smile, and make my day better. When I heard from him, it felt like everything was OK in the world. He cared about his friends and wanted to celebrate being together. That’s just how he lived.”

“The Christmas before last, I was in New Orleans with my family and got a call from Pableaux, telling me that he was coming over to take our photo,” Elie says. “He knew that was a special moment and wanted to do that for us. That photo of us in our red Christmas pajamas sitting on my mother’s steps now sits in my living room. To take your time and energy to do that, and to spend Christmas running around taking photos for others, was who he was. Now, I wonder where Pableaux would have had his own Christmas dinner. He would have had a dozen invitations, but I have the impression that it was more important for him to make sure he helped us capture that day than to celebrate it himself.”

Johnson occasionally took his signature supper on tour as the Red Beans Road Show for pop-ups with chef friends in other cities, using the simple meal as an excuse to sit for a meal with people and talk. His death stunned his far-reaching network of friends, many of whom mourn his kindness, how easily he connected with others, and the sense of community he built within minutes of conversation. 

“He was charm, wit, and joy personified,” recalls New Orleans bartender and cocktail consultant Abigail Gullo. “And he would not suffer fools or negativity in general. ‘Good DAY to you, sir,’ was his common refrain.” 

“One Monday night, a friend of Pableaux’s asked if he could bring a friend who was in town working on a movie,” Kinsman recounts. “Of course, he said yes, figuring they were part of the film crew. Pableaux had just been binging the show Sherlock and he walked out into the living room to find Benedict Cumberbatch in the small group that had gathered. Because, of course.” 

“You never knew who you’d see there,” says Elie. “If I had folks in town, I’d ask if they could come over for red beans. Those dinners represented New Orleans at its best. It was our city’s dish, and it was humanity at its best. That defines Pableaux.”

As his friends mourn him and plan second lines and a celebration of life, they have been sharing stories of his regular texts and calls to check in on them. Several, like Elie, responded to the news by putting dried red beans in a pot of water to soak. They’ll eat his beloved Monday night supper of red beans and rice, remembering their dear friend with the simple meal he used to make the world a warmer place each week.