by Javier E. Cotera
The date was a Sunday in July 1985. My friend Roger and I could see parishioners spilling out of the Nuestra Señora church on Avenida de los Insurgentes after midday Mass as we drove west toward downtown Juárez in search of some serious restoratives. The air was dry—no surprise there—and the sound of the church bells followed us as far as Avenida Constitución. Roger was beginning his studies in mechanical engineering at UTEP—though he was destined to become a poet—and I was considering studying architecture, like my father.
We parked in front of the Kentucky Club on Avenida Juárez and greeted Don Pancho Montes, the owner, who, even at that time, spent much of his day sitting outside the bar, smoking. From there, we walked to the entrance of Restaurant Martino Bar Café, past the display of fresh meats and seafood, arguably the finest dining establishment in the entire Juárez–El Paso–Las Cruces region back in those days.
Our waiter, dressed in a white jacket and black tie, stood at the ready, notepad in hand, while we pored over the gargantuan selection on the menu. Roger had dined there a couple of times; for me, this was my first. Somehow, I had saved money for months, convinced that the experience would be worth it.
And it truly was.
We started with classic escargot and Oysters Rockefeller, accompanied by fresh bread, butter, and a bottle of Marqués de Riscal. Enormous white asparagus with fresh hollandaise was served in the middle of the table. I had the filet al jerez, flambéed tableside, while Roger ordered the whole trout, baked en papillote with butter. A glass of white wine accompanied the trout and a red the filet mignon.
Then we each smoked a cigarette—unfiltered Lucky Strikes—and ordered European-style coffee and crème brûlée for dessert. By the end, when the last bite had been consumed, we felt more than merely restored. Somehow, our entire outlook on life had shifted toward something better—something easier to bear.
That experience stayed with me and probably played a part in my decision to study culinary arts later in life. It was there that I learned about the myth and history surrounding the first restaurants.
Imagine Paris around the year 1765, before the Revolution. A man named Boulanger opened an establishment where he sold restaurants—or restoratives—to people afflicted with digestive maladies. These were broths, meant to revive and strengthen the body. For the first time, patrons could choose something according to their individual needs rather than accept the single meal offered at an inn or tavern.
There is a phrase associated with Boulanger that says:
“Come to me, all whose stomachs cry in anguish, and I will restore you.”
A revolutionary idea was beginning to take shape: a place devoted specifically to serving food chosen by the customer.
Then came the French Revolution—ten long years of bloody chaos. Hundreds of professional cooks found themselves without work after their aristocratic patrons had been jailed, fled, or killed. Slowly, many began opening businesses that catered to the general public. This helped spread the idea that fine dining did not have to exist exclusively for the upper classes.
A person with enough money could enter an establishment, order a carefully prepared meal, sit at an individual table, study a menu, and enjoy professional service. Good ideas spread quickly. By the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, restaurants were opening all across Europe and, eventually, throughout the world.
Of course, you don’t have to be a fine-dining establishment to be a good restaurant. Other great places in Juárez at that time included Julio’s Café Corona, with its mouthwatering red enchiladas and moles; La Fogata, a family-oriented Mexican steakhouse; and La Casa del Sol, which served whole black bass and, the best chocolate mousse in the city. The Shangri-La and Lai Wha Yen were also fantastic options for Asian cuisine. La Villa Española served authentic paellas, while La Parrilla Suiza had, quite simply, the best taquitos in town.
A true restaurant should comfort us, restore our strength, and bring people together. In some cases, it can even restore memory.
In its purest form, a restaurant is not merely a place where we consume food. It is a place where we go to be restored.
Much has changed. People and restaurants come and go, and the meanings of words continue to evolve. But one thing remains the same:
We all need nourishment, we all need well-being, we all need a good restaurant.