From my friend Bob Goodman comes the sad news that the Winnemucca Hotel is being reduced to rubble, soon to become replaced by a vacant lot bearing a bronze plaque identifying the spot where stood a historic edifice. For those of us privileged to have been customers when the place was sort of thriving, each falling brick is like a blow to the heart.
I’m not sure, but I believe the Winnemucca Hotel might have been the oldest building in Nevada. If not, it certainly looked the part. Everything about it reeked of the old country from which Basque herdsmen had been recruited to tend flocks in profound solitude to which it is said they are constitutionally well-suited. But the fact is, Basques love to socialize; hence the need for a gathering place where a man could book a room for the night, dine with friends, and drink until the bar ran out of booze—which at a Basque saloon is something that would never, ever happen.
During the daytime, you might think the in-house restaurant was closed; however, it was just resting. Come suppertime, the door to the communal dining hall would swing open and an army of comely young girls would magically appear, bearing bowl after bowl and platter after platter of delicious food. On each table were carafes of burgundy wine that were constantly being refilled—I presume from a railway tanker car, but I’m not sure. Whatever, it was just right for washing down a steak twice the size of your plate.
On one occasion, a member of our party—unfamiliar with Basque etiquette—asked the waiter if he could have a smaller steak. Presently the chef appeared bearing a steak twice the size as the one he’d sent back. “You eat that!” he demanded, whereupon the chastened diner did as he was told.
Thereafter, we always referred to Mike Olano Jr. as the The Steak Nazi. Behind the bar, he became known as the Drink Nazi. Once, when a customer meekly asked if he could have a milder cocktail, Mike Jr. hastily showed him the door. “Go to MacDonald’s!” he shouted—which I understand is the harshest of all Basque epithets.
The man you wanted to prepare your drink was the proprietor, Miguel Olano, Senior—undisputed master mixer of an aperitif traditionally served before and after supper. I don’t recall what’s in a Picon Punch; I only remember that it’s delicious. After imbibing one or two, you are convivial to a fault. Whoever might be sitting on the stool next to you became your new best friend, and your conversation, however slurred, was absolutely riveting. Come closing time, I was always sad to say goodbye to my newfound soul mates, and relieved that my motel room at the Shady Court was within easy staggering distance.
Both Mikes, senior and junior, have since gone to their graves. Perhaps, had they partied less heartily, they’d still be with us and the Winnemucca Hotel would still be standing. Then again, who needs another MacDonald’s?
