If you find yourself standing on a dark residential corner in the Uptown neighborhood of New Orleans, staring at a slumped, windowless shack that looks like it might be a shed for lawn equipment, you’ve arrived. There is no neon sign screaming for your attention. There are no velvet ropes. Honestly, if it weren't for the faint red glow bleeding through the cracks in the door, you might just walk past Snake and Jake's Christmas Club Lounge and never think about it again. That would be a mistake. Or maybe it wouldn't. This place isn't for everyone, and that is exactly why it matters.
New Orleans is a city that eats its own history for breakfast, yet somehow, Snake’s remains untouched by the creeping hand of "gentrification chic." It’s a dive bar. A real one. Not a bar designed to look like a dive by an interior architect with a degree from RISD, but a place where the walls are literally held together by layers of duct tape, Christmas tinsel from the Bush administration, and the collective sighs of shift workers.
The Red Light and the Tin Roof
Walking into Snake and Jake's Christmas Club Lounge is like walking into a photographic negative. Your eyes won't work for the first three minutes. The lighting is strictly red—provided by a tangled mess of year-round Christmas lights—and the interior is perpetually shrouded in a haze that feels like 1974. It’s small. It’s cramped. If you’re claustrophobic, you’ll probably hate it. But if you’re looking for a place where your boss, your ex, and the sunlight can’t find you, this is the Promised Land.
The bar was founded by Snake and Jake, though the ownership eventually passed to Dave Clements, a man who understands that the primary appeal of a bar like this is that it never, ever changes. You don't come here for a craft cocktail with a sprig of slapped mint. You come here for a "Possum Shot." You come here because it’s 4:00 AM and everywhere else has turned on the overhead lights, but Snake’s is just getting its second wind.
It’s built out of a converted tin shack. When it rains, which happens every twenty minutes in Louisiana, the sound on the roof is deafening. It creates this strange, insulated intimacy where you’re forced to lean in close to the person next to you just to hear their name. You'll meet anyone here. I’ve sat between a Tulane law professor and a guy who spent the last eight hours pressure-washing grease traps. They were both drinking the same cheap beer. That’s the Great Equalizer of the red light.
Why the "Christmas Club" Name?
People always ask about the name. Is it a holiday-themed bar? Sorta. But not in the way those "Miracle on 5th Street" pop-ups are. It’s not whimsical. It’s dusty. The Christmas decor is permanent because taking it down would probably cause the structural integrity of the ceiling to fail. The "Christmas Club" moniker actually harks back to an old banking term where people would save money all year to spend it in December. At Snake’s, it feels more like a place where time has been saved up and then forgotten.
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The Legend of the Naked Guy
You can’t talk about Snake and Jake's Christmas Club Lounge without addressing the "Schlitz and Giggles." For years, the bar had a legendary (and unofficial) policy: if you showed up completely naked, you got a free Schlitz.
Now, look. New Orleans is a permissive city. But even here, there are limits. While the "naked for a beer" thing has passed into the realm of local folklore and is less of a nightly occurrence now—mostly due to, you know, basic hygiene and modern sensibilities—the spirit of the rule remains. It signals a "come as you are" ethos that is increasingly rare. If a bar is cool with a guy wearing nothing but a smile and a wristwatch, they probably won't judge you for having a bad hair day or a mid-life crisis at the bar top.
Survival in the Age of Instagram
How does a place like this survive? We live in an era where every business feels the need to be "Instagrammable." Usually, that means neon signs that say Save Water, Drink Champagne or walls covered in fake ivy. Snake’s is the antithesis of this. It’s actually quite hard to take a good photo inside because it’s so dark. Your flash will just illuminate the dust motes and the fact that the person next to you is staring into the middle distance.
But that’s the draw.
In a world of curated experiences, Snake and Jake’s is an uncurated reality. It’s authentic in a way that can’t be manufactured. It smells like old wood and spilled lager. It’s located at 7612 Oak Street, tucked away from the tourist trap of Bourbon Street. You have to want to go there. You have to seek it out.
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The bar serves as a sanctuary for the "service industry" crowd. When bartenders from the fancy French Quarter hotels finish their shifts at 3:00 AM, they don't want to go to a place with loud EDM and $18 martinis. They go to Snake’s. They want a shot of Jameson and a cold can of something that costs less than a gallon of gas.
The Essential Etiquette
If you’re going to visit, don't be a tourist. Even if you are a tourist. There’s a specific way to behave in a dive of this caliber.
- Cash is king. Don't be the person trying to split a $12 tab across four different rewards cards.
- Respect the darkness. Don't walk in and immediately turn on your phone's flashlight to find a seat. Let your pupils dilate. It’s part of the ritual.
- Be cool to the bartender. The person behind that bar has seen things that would make a riot cop flinch. They aren't there to entertain you; they’re there to facilitate your escape.
- The jukebox is sacred. It’s one of the best in the city. If you put on something that ruins the vibe, the locals will let you know with a look that feels like a physical weight.
The Architecture of a Dive
Let's get technical for a second about why the physical space works. The building is essentially a shotgun-style shack. It’s narrow. This forces social interaction. You cannot physically move to the bathroom without saying "excuse me" to at least three people. In a digital age where we are all increasingly isolated, this forced proximity creates a weird sense of community.
There’s no "VIP section." There’s no "bottle service." The stool you're sitting on might be a little wobbly, and the floor might be slightly uneven, but that’s because the building has been settling into the soft Louisiana soil since before you were born. It’s alive.
Actionable Advice for Your Visit
If you're planning to make the pilgrimage to Snake and Jake's Christmas Club Lounge, here is the play-by-play for a perfect experience.
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First, do not go before midnight. Sure, they open earlier, but the bar doesn't reveal its true form until the clock strikes twelve. Use the early evening to eat a heavy meal—you’re going to need the carb padding. Head to Oak Street. If you’re taking a rideshare, tell them the corner of Oak and Hillary.
Look for the "Christmas Club" sign. It’s small.
When you walk in, head straight to the back. Order a beer and a shot. Don't ask for a cocktail menu. There isn't one. If you want something fancy, you're in the wrong neighborhood. Find a spot along the wall or, if you're lucky, a stool at the bar. Then, just sit. Listen to the music. Watch the people. You'll see a microcosm of New Orleans life—poets, plumbers, and people who have been sitting in that exact spot since the 1990s.
Next Steps for the New Orleans Explorer:
- Check the weather: If it's raining, definitely go. The sound on the tin roof is the best soundtrack in the city.
- Bring small bills: Tipping well in a dive bar is the fastest way to become a "regular" in the eyes of the staff.
- Plan your exit: Oak Street is quiet at 5:00 AM. Make sure you have your transport sorted before you realize you've lost track of time.
Snake and Jake's isn't just a bar. It’s a reminder that even as the world gets glossier and more expensive, there are still pockets of the underground that refuse to be polished. It’s dark, it’s damp, and it’s perfect. Just don't forget to tip your bartender.