by Howard Campbell
After walking across the heavily fortified Paso del Norte bridge and ducking through Mexican customs, you arrive at the foot of Juárez Avenue. The bar sits on the right side of the very first block. Overhead, a reddish-brown wrought iron sign with “La Cucaracha” etched into the metal hangs above the entrance—a more folkloric name for a Mexican cantina is simply not possible.
The blue and green inlaid glass saloon doors beckon you inside. The space opens into one massive room, though it is difficult to see because the overhead lights are off. The only illumination is the faint, grey glimmer of a battered black-and-white television. The place is completely empty except for the bartender, who sits on a folding chair, staring blankly at the screen. When I tell him we are just looking around, he simply grunts, “Close the door.” I turn back to comply, but he interrupts: “Close it when you leave.” I ask why the bar is entirely empty, but the owner stays silent.
My friend and I admire the forty-foot-long hardwood bar. Behind it, shelves are packed with hundreds of liquor bottles, many of which appear empty. The bar top itself is cluttered two feet high with tins of sardines, canned food, plates, silverware, personal items, and a myriad of other indistinguishable objects. The walls are saturated with vintage photographs, old musical instruments, and miscellaneous memorabilia. Toward the back, mysterious piles blend into the darkness beneath a small upstairs balcony, its black railing reminiscent of an old Western tavern. Ornate wooden tables are paired with bent-metal chairs.
My friend remarks that this cantina would be a massive hit if it were located in a bohemian neighborhood of San Francisco, Los Angeles, or New York. But this is downtown Juárez, and it has been a neglected gem for at least two decades. Every time I have entered over the last fifteen years, the scene has been identical: dark, dusty, and as solitary as a tomb.
The owner wants it that way, a veteran bargirl later tells me. She started frequenting the place in 2003. During those years, prostitutes would approach the owner and ask to work the floor. He always refused. He never allowed street girls to bring men inside; if they arrived alone or in a group, he kicked them out after a single drink. If the bar ever started to fill up, he would lock the front door, encouraging patrons to finish up and leave. He never pushed customers to drink more. When he grew tired of them, he simply sent them away.
“He was always angry,” the bargirl recalled. The prostitutes from the nearby Gato Negro used to dare each other to flirt with him, trying to make him fall in love. It never worked. Everyone was rejected, though the bartender is not gay, she noted.
“It’s a money laundering operation,” my female companion suggested, though that project seemed unlikely. My poet friend had a different take, noting the place was “straight out of David Lynch.”
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