I heard you were a swank dinner and dance place in the
1960s. A neon martini glass and lit-up sign with your name emblazoned across in
that quirky mid-century font, those tall palm trees swaying, big cars lining
your parking lot, men and women dressed up for a night out. A landmark.
During my childhood in the ’70s and ’80s, you were tired around
the edges, just like all of the places on San Pablo Avenue. Some people still
wanted to have dinner within your walls, but there was nothing special about
you any longer. I remember going there as a kid and liking your indoor fountain
and the pretty ironwork over your bar.
By the time I moved back to the Bay Area in 2002, you had visibly
fallen on hard times. One of the letters in the sign on the side of the
building was falling down, the arches looked water-stained and rusted. You
served watered down drinks and terrible food. You smelled musty. Your bleached-blonde, mid-life waitresses (still wearing those ridiculous peasant blouses) vocally complained about the management. Only one or
two cars could be seen in that big lonely parking lot at any given time.
Oh, but your building. Your glorious, monolithic, Mad
Men-esque building. With your imposing stone facade and hacienda-style arches,
you were still the perfect monument to mid-century kitsch and
“Mexican-American” dining. You had such wonderful potential. H. and I had
dreams of buying you and fixing you up, opening a retro dinner-dance club with
live music and great food.
As you slowly crumbled down each year, huge and
abandoned, we couldn’t understand how you stayed open. Then one day you did
finally close your doors for good. Your owner, Antonio Carrico, had died. And
then the bulldozers came.
And now you are gone. All except your sign which still
stands over what is now a Grocery Outlet parking lot. It will be gone
soon, too, I imagine. I hope, at least, the palm trees stay.
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