by Phil Campbell
he highest cover charge at a Memphis nightclub is ...
“Thirty dollars,” the woman behind the counter says. Given her tight white blouse and long, black, curly hair, the male patrons stop to talk for as long as they can. Even with feigned interest, she is more pleasant than a lot of people who collect cover charges in Memphis.
When I reach the counter, alone, she looks at me sympathetically.
“You understand what this is? This bar ...” she hesitates, “is
primarily for Hispanics, with Hispanic music.”
PHOTO BY DANIEL BALL
Local Hispanics mingle on the dance floor at Bronco’s.
She doesn’t want me to waste my money. I may only stay at Bronco’s for a few minutes.
There’s a lot going on in that woman’s look. This is Memphis, not Mexico City, but the only non-Hispanics you’ll find at this club at Winchester and Lamar on a weekend night sit either behind the bar or inside the manager’s office. The patrons are almost entirely Mexican. Bud Chittom, who has a personal stake in such mainstream clubs as Blues City Cafe, Six-1-Six, and Earnestine and Hazel’s, runs Bronco’s for three owners, only one of whom – Julio Estrada – is Hispanic.
Her look means something else, too. In many of the best clubs in Mexico City, you can’t get in if you’re alone. Women often do not venture out unless they are being escorted by a male. If you’re a man, you at least have to be with a buddy, and most go in with a date and several of their closest friends who also have dates. A lone Hispanic on a Friday night is the loneliest person in the world.
I enter despite “the look.” With the exception of the long-distance phone-card vendor in the lobby (for those short calls to Tegucigalpa), Bronco’s is similar to any other bar in town. Six pool tables of standard bar size form a rectangle in the front room, surrounded by a handful of video games and three televisions airing CNN and Hispanic programming. On the other side of a wide bar is the restaurant area, where Bea Gonzalez, who used to run the Midtown Cuban restaurant Lupe and Bea’s, serves as hostess.
Rows of chairs and tables from the dining area lead to the dance floor. At times the floor is packed, at others it’s nearly empty. What doesn’t change, however, are the dozens of men who stand or sit around it. They are waiting for someone to dance with. They are not, however, traditional geeks; no one looks awkward or embarrassed clutching a can of beer and staring into space, primarily because these men are surrounded by friends.
The dance floor ends at the stage – the main reason why the cover is so high. Chittom and the owners import bands from Mexico and Latin America. According to Estrada, Bronco’s seeks only the best bands, performing every genre of Hispanic music, from Tejano to Latino house to salsa. Groups that have come through Bronco’s include La Banda Blanca, a cumbia band from Honduras, and Pasion Norteņa (norteņa is Mexican country music).
It seems counterintuitive, asking a community which came to Memphis to escape poverty and save money for those left back home to shell out $30 just to get into one club. Judging by the size of the crowds, though, they obviously think it’s worth it. This is one of the few places in town where an Hispanic can go and feel at home. Before the opening of Bronco’s and the other Hispanic weekend club in town, Headliner’s, it was practically impossible to find something to do on a Friday night.
“I come here because of all the people,” Rube Ramirez tells me. He drinks cheap American beer with his buddies and shoots pool with only a casual concern for the game’s rules. “I like the music. That’s what we like here. And we can find some women, you know.”
Decked out in a cowboy hat, a black leather jacket decorated with furry, Holstein cow spots, black jeans, and narrow, pointed-toe leather boots, 22-year-old Ramirez is a ranchero without a ranch. He moved to Memphis four years ago from central Mexico, where his family still herds cattle. At Bronco’s, he fits in easily. The age range is wide, but the youth outnumber the seniors, and the cowboy hats outnumber the baseball caps.
From the other side of the room, tonight’s Tejano band, Los Barbaros Del Norte, yells out in Spanish, “If you like mariachi, scream!” Ramirez and his friends let out throat-opening yips and hollers. They’re drowned out by Hispanics with a variety of accents and shouting styles, urban and rural, Mexican and Nicaraguan. Ramirez screams again, this time kicking his feet into the air for emphasis.
The only two blond, non-Hispanic women here appear to be interested in one of Ramirez’s friends, so the urban ranchero joins his friend for a few moments before returning to the pool table to lose a game. While chalking his stick, he talks about the sexual stereotype concerning male Hispanics in the United States, the one that says they have a greater tendency to hit on American women, particularly blond American women. Under the circumstances, Ramirez says, that’s actually true.
“There aren’t many Mexican women here,” he explains. “If someone asks a Mexican woman to dance, and she’s with someone, he’ll kick your ass.”
Later on, Ramirez will go to the dance floor and sit on its edge with some friends until the wee hours. He takes it all in with a youthful smile. Not much luck tonight, but Ramirez doesn’t seem to care. There will be other nights. n