IN HISTORIC BROWNTOWN, PALM LOUNGE RESTORES SPIRITS

By Dr. G.F. McHale-Scully

(Edwin Hernandez has not only bought the Palm Lounge; he has rescued the Palm Lounge from perdition. It is no longer a cantina although when it was a cantina, it was the best cantina in Texas with the best burgers on the border.

Hernandez has modernized the Palm, expanded the menu, added liquor and promotes live music. Nobody would confuse the Palm with the Sportsman, the latter downtown's last official cantina. 

Hernandez includes "historical" in the Palm's marquee. It's also the best place to watch the Charro Days parades as you quaff on a cold brewsky as can be seen in the photo above. And here are a few reasons. Here's a piece of Palm Lounge history):

I remember those early days in Brownsville when I believed I would live forever. Many of those afternoons were spent at the Palm Lounge. Johnny Quiroz ran the joint; Beto, Servando and Toque served the hamburgers and beer.

In the late 1970s and early 1980s the Palm was strictly a men's bar although pretty secretaries working at downtown businesses would cozy into one of the booths at lunch time and order a hamburger and a soft drink. The rest of the day, however, belonged to the guys.

There was no place on summer days that my friends and I didn't enjoy more than the Palm's air-conditioned refuge. It was a poor man's lodge. And anybody who was anybody stopped for at least two beers.

The conversation, undisturbed by the temptation of women, was always animated. We thought we were going to conquer the world. In those distant times my brother Bill spent three years with me on the border. He was in his early twenties and I was single. Those were bacchanalian days. It was a small miracle I retained my teaching and coaching jobs. Drugs, sex and alcohol dictated the days. Matamoros was our den of iniquity. We kept our health playing tennis, shooting baskets and jogging several miles every day.

Bill and I lived in several different apartments downtown. Neither of us had cars. We rode the buses. I never had a vehicle until I married the second time in my late thirties. I avoided DWIs that would have undermined my professional life. We had a large entourage that followed us from residence to residence. With the exception of Bill, I would banish these slackers from my presence after they had raided the refrigerator and turned my domicile into a pig pen, but a few weeks later, with gifts of dope, gals and booze, these stray dogs would once again find themselves under my roof.

I embarked on my coaching career during Bill's stay. I coached varsity soccer for the Porter Cowboys. Bill and the gang were my biggest fans. We competed at Sams Stadium that seated 10,000, but less than 200 fans attended the games. In spite of the small number, there were twice as many cops on duty as would provide security for a football game. There aficionados were maniacs compared to the normal gridiron fanatics. They fought at the slightest provocation.

Bill and the boys appeared one game in the stands and called to me. I was pacing the sidelines. I waved to them; then I noticed they were drinking beer. The police left them in peace. Nobody said anything. The next day Tony Ortiz, the principal, called me into the office. He was a roly-poly man with the jollity associated with a laughing Buddha.

"That wasn't your brother at the game, was it?"

"Yes, sir. It was."

"Do me a favor, Coach. Tell them to refrain from bringing beer to the next game."

Bill held a variety of jobs from checker to bartender, but relations between us took a negative turn the last year. He wasn't working or studying. I began to suspect that he was dealing small amounts of marijuana to make ends meet. He was downtown every night at the Palm drinking beer and eating hamburgers. I knew that he had a charge account based on my reputation. Whenever he paid, he gratefully bought Beto, the bartender, a steak and tipped generously. I was at the bar and called Beto.

"How much does Bill owe?" I asked.

I never exceeded $100 without covering my debts.

"Three hundred dollars," answered Beto.

"Three hundred dollars!" I gasped in disbelief.

"Tu hermano es muy hermoso," slobbered an adjacent drunk.

"No es muy generoso," corrected Beto with a wry smile. "Es pendejo!"

"Cut him off!" I growled. "No more credit! How could you allow him to overextend himself without advising me?"

Beto shrugged his shoulders and excused himself to serve another customer.