No matter what task he’s engaged in—slicing limes, shaking cocktails, restocking the three-tiered tequila case—bartender Robert Varela pivots from what he’s doing behind the bar at San Antonio’s Frutería Botanero to greet guests with a welcoming bellow, “Bienvenido. Welcome.”
Most Texans with deep roots in the state treasure the contributions their ancestors made to its unique history. But there may not be a clan with a keener appreciation of its role in this immense and storied land than the Guerra family of far South Texas.
Immerse yourself in the colorful works of influential French artist Henri Matisse (1869-1954) this summer at the San Antonio Museum of Art.
Curious about menudo? Try all types of the spicy beef-tripe stew at the Laredo Crime Stoppers Menudo Bowl on January 18, 2014.
It’s been 50 years, give or take, since a clean-shaven, copper-locked singer-songwriter from up past Waco first took the stage at John T. Floore Country Store, which was then—as now—just a little honky-tonk nestled among the live oaks west of San Antonio. No recording exists of that performance, but why would it? No one knew then that this slightly built guy with the nasally voice would become Willie Nelson, the icon, or that the relationship he built with Floore’s would still be going strong into the 21st Century.
The streets of Old San Antonio have long been noted for their winding and crooked courses. And if you travel the way I sometimes do—the mule-headed “guy way” in which we set out exploring without maps or directions—you’ve no doubt gotten happily lost in the Alamo City’s avenues.
Driving northbound on I-35 through downtown San Antonio affords a clear view of the city’s Christus Santa Rosa Children’s Hospital, where a nine-story, tiled mural called Spirit of Healing features an image of a young boy holding a dove while an angel watches over him. For San Antonio artist Jesse Treviño, who completed the mural in 1997, the intricately tiled artwork expresses a simple and enduring sentiment.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Stories on the Alamo inevitably stir deep emotions, and Jan Reid’s personal reflection on the storied shrine in the September issue was no exception. Some readers found the piece compelling, some took offense to certain ideas expressed, and some pointed out factual errors. We appreciate all of the feedback, and have posted the responses below. For an updated version of the story, click here.
Edinburg has never been a sleepy little town. In 1908, when it was a tent city called Chapin, where cattle trails used to run, a wagon caravan arrived in the dark of night. After long hours moving legal records from their flood-prone Rio Grande location to the newly-voted-in county seat, Hidalgo County citizens felt the air was full of promise.