The Way We Were: The Roaring 20's Remembered
By Paul Milan, County Historical Society, for The Beacon: April 11, 2014
Every time I pass the Roaring Twenties sign on Santa Fe Avenue, it brings a smile to me of memories past.
This sign was on East Central in Albuquerque promoting a restaurant, bar, and entertainment. It was during the 1960s and one time my wife and I and another couple decided to try out this provocative sounding place to celebrate our anniversary. The atmosphere was fabulous and after we were seated a topless waitress appeared with a menu and proceeded to take our drink orders. Our wives laughed as the other husband stuttered while ordering his drink and all I could say was the same for me. The drinks turned out to be martinis; I had never had a martini; and every time the waitress came to our table, which was often, we ordered another round.
My friend and I could not remember the food that was served. We had to be escorted to the car and on the way home our wives never let us forget that our heads were sticking out the window like two dogs.
I don’t know why the Roaring Twenties closed in Albuquerque. Eddie McBride and his wife moved from California and he proceeded to upgrade his father’s property and bought the sign.
That particular block was one of the busiest blocks in Grants. On the corner where the Roaring Twenties was built was the Red Ball Garage operated by Tomas Garcia where many mechanics in Grants got their start.
Louis McBride, Sr. (Eddie’s father) and his wife owned the Sunshine Café, Bar, and Dance Hall. Next door was a barber shop, the Grants Confectionary, a fabric shop that later became an appliance store, followed by another building that at one time housed the Grants Beacon, later a body shop, and then Anaconda (Mining Company) leased it for storing ore samples. The corner had a vacant lot for parking and was rented for the carnivals when they came to town.
The Sunshine Café was a mom-and-pop café and featured New Mexican food. The Sunshine Dance Hall was probably left over from the 1920s and was full every Saturday night. A rail surrounded the dance floor; the men stood around the rail and the girls were seated in another area. When the music started the men would look for a partner and when the floor was full, the music would stop and a person would collect ten cents from each couple. I went there a couple of times but I was used to dancing free of charge at the school’s sock hop, the San Rafael Fiestas, and at the Bluewater weekly dances.
Besides ten cents would buy a lot of ice cream at the Grants Confectionary next door and across the street the Royal Café would sell you a grilled cheese sandwich with chips and a drink for twenty-five cents.
I was working at a nearby service station for twenty-five cents an hour and wasn’t going to spend an hour’s wages for a few dances. If a few of the patrons argued over a girl they both wanted to dance with, a security guard by the name of Procopio who was more than six feet tall and weighed at least 300 pounds, would whack them with a blackjack, no questions asked.
The Humphries owned the Grants Confectionary and on Saturday night Mr. Humphries would stand outside to stop the dancers from parking their cars in front of his store. The barbershop was open late on Saturday because many of the sheep men would come to town to shower and get a haircut so they could attend Mass the next day. The barber was a Russian immigrant and he would also try to keep the dancers from parking in front of his place. The barber was nicknamed “The Mad Russian” and the teenagers would appear at his door and mock him yelling “Mad Russian” and he would run after them with a straightedge razor threatening to cut their throats.
During the war years in the early forties we hardly ever came to town on Saturday night so we didn’t know what was going on until after the war and had learned to drive. After the war driving through Grants on Saturday night, lit up by neon signs, all the bars (29) and pool halls (two) were full, the Lux Theater was full with people lined up for the second show, and every block had a café, which was full, and parking was impossible.
If the school, now the (Cibola) County Building, had a game it seemed that everybody on this side of the county attended; and everybody in town attended a school dance even if it was the prom.
Nowadays, when I drive through Grants, during the evenings, the town seems to be deserted with very few, if any, businesses open along the very well lighted streets that have plenty of parking available.
Editor’s Note: Paul Milan contributes to the Beacon’s history column and is a longtime resident of Cibola County. Milan’s father, Salvador Milan, was the Village of Milan’s first mayor.
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By Paul Milan, County Historical Society, for The Beacon: April 11, 2014
Every time I pass the Roaring Twenties sign on Santa Fe Avenue, it brings a smile to me of memories past.
This sign was on East Central in Albuquerque promoting a restaurant, bar, and entertainment. It was during the 1960s and one time my wife and I and another couple decided to try out this provocative sounding place to celebrate our anniversary. The atmosphere was fabulous and after we were seated a topless waitress appeared with a menu and proceeded to take our drink orders. Our wives laughed as the other husband stuttered while ordering his drink and all I could say was the same for me. The drinks turned out to be martinis; I had never had a martini; and every time the waitress came to our table, which was often, we ordered another round.
My friend and I could not remember the food that was served. We had to be escorted to the car and on the way home our wives never let us forget that our heads were sticking out the window like two dogs.
I don’t know why the Roaring Twenties closed in Albuquerque. Eddie McBride and his wife moved from California and he proceeded to upgrade his father’s property and bought the sign.
That particular block was one of the busiest blocks in Grants. On the corner where the Roaring Twenties was built was the Red Ball Garage operated by Tomas Garcia where many mechanics in Grants got their start.
Louis McBride, Sr. (Eddie’s father) and his wife owned the Sunshine Café, Bar, and Dance Hall. Next door was a barber shop, the Grants Confectionary, a fabric shop that later became an appliance store, followed by another building that at one time housed the Grants Beacon, later a body shop, and then Anaconda (Mining Company) leased it for storing ore samples. The corner had a vacant lot for parking and was rented for the carnivals when they came to town.
The Sunshine Café was a mom-and-pop café and featured New Mexican food. The Sunshine Dance Hall was probably left over from the 1920s and was full every Saturday night. A rail surrounded the dance floor; the men stood around the rail and the girls were seated in another area. When the music started the men would look for a partner and when the floor was full, the music would stop and a person would collect ten cents from each couple. I went there a couple of times but I was used to dancing free of charge at the school’s sock hop, the San Rafael Fiestas, and at the Bluewater weekly dances.
Besides ten cents would buy a lot of ice cream at the Grants Confectionary next door and across the street the Royal Café would sell you a grilled cheese sandwich with chips and a drink for twenty-five cents.
I was working at a nearby service station for twenty-five cents an hour and wasn’t going to spend an hour’s wages for a few dances. If a few of the patrons argued over a girl they both wanted to dance with, a security guard by the name of Procopio who was more than six feet tall and weighed at least 300 pounds, would whack them with a blackjack, no questions asked.
The Humphries owned the Grants Confectionary and on Saturday night Mr. Humphries would stand outside to stop the dancers from parking their cars in front of his store. The barbershop was open late on Saturday because many of the sheep men would come to town to shower and get a haircut so they could attend Mass the next day. The barber was a Russian immigrant and he would also try to keep the dancers from parking in front of his place. The barber was nicknamed “The Mad Russian” and the teenagers would appear at his door and mock him yelling “Mad Russian” and he would run after them with a straightedge razor threatening to cut their throats.
During the war years in the early forties we hardly ever came to town on Saturday night so we didn’t know what was going on until after the war and had learned to drive. After the war driving through Grants on Saturday night, lit up by neon signs, all the bars (29) and pool halls (two) were full, the Lux Theater was full with people lined up for the second show, and every block had a café, which was full, and parking was impossible.
If the school, now the (Cibola) County Building, had a game it seemed that everybody on this side of the county attended; and everybody in town attended a school dance even if it was the prom.
Nowadays, when I drive through Grants, during the evenings, the town seems to be deserted with very few, if any, businesses open along the very well lighted streets that have plenty of parking available.
Editor’s Note: Paul Milan contributes to the Beacon’s history column and is a longtime resident of Cibola County. Milan’s father, Salvador Milan, was the Village of Milan’s first mayor.
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