A Kiss Stolen in
Black Bart’s Cave
Originally published as “Stealing (Another) Kiss in Black Bart’s Cave” in The Greeley Tribune, January 20, 2024.
The newly restored, historic Casa Bonita in Lakewood, CO. Photo/Stacy McCloud.
My two youngest, who previously
rated the restaurant
“not memorable,”
finally understood
the love and nostalgia
my husband and I
felt for this childhood playground.
“You'll notice your feet no longer stick to the floor," said the pleasant, punk rock-looking hostess as she greeted us at the end of the food line.
She asked if it was our first time. My husband and our two youngest chuckled silently as each of us recollected our first visit to the iconic Colorado restaurant nicknamed "the Disneyland of Mexican restaurants."
My first memory takes place in the magnificently themed restaurant’s infancy. It was the early 80s, and the West Colfax restaurant had only been open for a few years. This beautiful, giant pink ruby was on the tail end of Colfax’s 54-mile stretch—possibly the longest boulevard in the world, or what Playboy Magazine called “the wickedest street in America.” Our bus bounced down Colfax, passing what Judgmental Maps.com calls, “hookers, drunk people, and hobos,” heading through Ghettosville toward good wholesome fun for children.
The infamous indoor waterfall at Casa Bonita where cliff divers perform daily. Photo/Stacy McCloud
We were the “latchkey generation” and the first elementary kids to enter the magnificent Casa Bonita. While generations have come and gone, Casa Bonita shall always belong to my generation—Gen X. Casa Bonita was our childhood treasure and a gift to us all.
The entrance to Colorado’s beloved 85-foot-tall pink palace opened in March 1974. The tower's dome was covered in 22-karat gold leaf (just out of reach of theft from the “hookers, drunk people, and hobos”). The giant fountain prominently in front was made in Mexico. The entrance was grand, exciting, and inviting. The paint was vibrant, the tiles weren’t chipped, the gorilla costume had barely been broken in, and the staff was engaging, fun, and full of life. But I don’t remember the floor ever not being sticky.
I was on a field trip in elementary school, and the anticipation built with every minute we waited with bated breath in the hour-long line to collect our food. We sat and ate, anxiously awaiting our fill of sopapillas after which we ran amuck like a wild tribe set free to terrorize the 56,000-square-foot Mexican village in the middle of a festival.
We were wild bandits—the long arm of Black Bart’s gang. Every table in the house was occupied. We watched the cliff divers leap 30 feet into the watery abyss and cheered the gorilla as the damsel in distress tried to escape its terrifying clutches. We took old west photos, played in the arcade, and participated in the most epic games of hide and seek and tag in the giant Mexican maze. There was always a boy collecting a kiss from a girl he had held hands with and protected through the peril of Black Bart’s cave.
A band performs at Casa Bonita. Photo/Stacy McCloud
Like an old sock, the restaurant gradually became neglected and the butt of many jokes. Paint touch-ups no longer happened, tables became wobbly, and Black Bart went on a drinking binge and lost his way back. Skee-ball tables swallowed balls whole through the holes in the warped surfaces. The photo booth closed, no more caricatures. Sopapillas were unlimited if you could wrangle up a server, sodas no longer had carbonation, the bathroom sinks were rusted, and the stall doors squeaked in pain every time they opened. The scary gorilla lost his scare, and the damsel in distress was sometimes unavailable to be distressed. Children stopped running the halls, hiding in caves, and laughing while hiding from each other. The enormous building felt the incredible loss of love and sunk into a lonely depression. It lost its magic—the magic was the children.
Casa Bonita’s Denver branch was the last built in the restaurant’s quartet. It was also the last standing and faced a fate far worse than death—being forgotten. Oklahoma City, Little Rock, and Tulsa branches opened in 1968-1971. While the three other amigos closed by 2005, Denver’s locale was the last to sling barely edible food to America’s youth.
Due to the 2020 pandemic, thousands of Colorado restaurants permanently closed. Casa Bonita’s closure during this time threatened the same fateful demise.
In 2021, South Park boys Trey Parker and Matt Stone purchased the restaurant and invested a whopping $40 million to breathe new life into the broken Lakewood landmark. They too were of the latchkey generation, so who better to reanimate the old monument? With their idea to keep Casa Bonita as original as possible to appeal to Coloradans’ nostalgic memories of the monstrosity of a restaurant that seated 1,100 sopapilla eaters, they hit their mark.
Stacy in the shadows of the giant skull at Casa Bonita. Photo/Stacy McCloud
I’m sure the phrase “red flag” was coined in this restaurant. The restaurant did not hand out white flags to surrender and escape from the atrocious burritos and tacos smothered in the mysterious cheese sauce. Surely, the antidote was in the delicious Colorado-local honey served with the world-famous Casa Bonita sopapillas. We flew the red flag high and often for unlimited refills of delicious fried pastries and sodas. I thought, as I bit into the delightful fried deserts, that this was Casa Bonita’s way of begging for forgiveness. They begged well, and forgiveness was always granted.
My children’s first memories are less magical than mine were. When asked, my 15-year-old daughter replied, “It’s a dump. It’s always been a dump.” She paused and then added, “But the sopapillas are amazing!” Red flag.
I asked my 24-year-old daughter, Ryan, the same question. She, too, commented on the fluffy, fried pillows saying, “I remember always having fun when we went, but the sopapillas were what I looked forward to.” Again, another red flag.
I am a Colorado native, and when meeting new people, rather than asking them where they’re from or how long they have lived in this beautiful state, I find it fun to ask, “What’s your first memory of Casa Bonita?” Their answer usually determines the longevity of our relationship. It’s a verbal hazing of sorts. I find Colorado natives to be some of the most genuine, kindest people in the world. The answer “I’ve never been there” usually engages my quality control radar.
The Cartman Table at Casa Bonita. Photo/Stacy McCloud
Upon our recent visit, nobody had stomach pains after eating. We were pleasantly surprised at the presentation, temperature, and taste of the Mexican cuisine. The music was lively, and the magic of laughter was heard throughout. Children were running through the halls, and screams could be heard from Black Bart’s cave as we watched the puppet show. The ancient structure had found its magic once more.
My two youngest, who previously rated the restaurant “not memorable,” finally understood the love and nostalgia my husband and I felt for this childhood playground.
Be sure to stop by Cartman’s table and tell him, “Thanks from the latchkey generation.” Those South Park boys once again gave us something pretty special.
Sadly, on the way out, I noticed the absence of the balloon machine and the epic treasure chest filled with miniature Tootsie Rolls that our mothers would find in the washing machines for days (because we always took more than one). Don’t miss the stroll down memory lane, the signs and relics of the restaurant’s past, signs, and vestiges of our childhoods.
Before leaving, we decided to check out Black Bart’s cave. My husband and I clasped hands before entering. This girl likes to be guided through the dark by a handsome hero while being led into an outlaw’s cave. We listened to kids screaming and watched them hide around dark corners before being swallowed by a giant skull. As we exited the building, we were still hand in hand, and I giggled as I realized he had stolen another kiss in Black Bart’s cave.
Reminiscing and stealing kisses at a favorite childhood playground. Photo/Stacy McCloud
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