John's Guide to the Brothels of San Miguel
Out on the Salida de Celaya, north of Calle Canal, the most elaborate, best-maintained building is this blue monstrosity, encrusted with balconies, nichos and statuary. Nothing indicates what its purpose is, but nonetheless it exudes a disreputable air—a magnet for men with an itch.
You might think Christians live here because of the cross on one end of the structure, nestled between the dozens of green frogs perched along the roof line.
At the other end, a sybaritic figure strikes a vaguely obscene pose. He creates a sort of moral tension along the length of the building: an analog of the tension in Mexican men who are expected to be both steadfast husbands and dissolute rakes.
The name of the place is Las Ranas (The Frogs). The only visible clue as to what goes on here is the huge tequila bottle over the front door.
People in the know will tell you that Los Ranas is a disreputable house. Patrons are almost entirely males who drink at a bar where women get undressed.
The aged father of a friend suffers from mild senile dementia, so a couple of young men are employed to see to his needs and provide him with companionship. Eventually the boys discovered that Dad has an interest in the esthetics of the female form. To indulge him, they began bringing him to Las Ranas. Dad's bar bills mounted, and worse, he fell in love with one of the "hostesses".
Finally, my friend told her father that a disaster had occurred. A man had been shot at the bar, and the place had been shut down by the police. Everyone who knew Dad was asked to maintain this fiction, thus enabling him to rediscover the paths of righteousness, and to live once again within his income.
Who knew such temptations lurked in this most religious country?
Farther out on the Dolores Highway, there's this garishly-painted building, the Fiesta Charra.
A large poster visible through the front gate identifies it as a night club featuring scantily-clad women. Recently I met one of the principals of this enterprise. He described it as a "table dance" club.
Bilingual Mexicans use this expression, "table dance", to mean what is called in Spanish, a baile privado, an expression that transliterates to "private dance". When I asked my friend, what exactly did a baile privado consist of, he described the act known up north as a "lap dance".
This knowledge cleared up for me the reason for the rules posted by the door; namely, that people wearing shorts or sweatpants, or who are drunk will not be admitted. The management wants to avoid the consequences of loose clothing or loose inhibitions.
Aficionados of such places would consider the two I've described so far to be "classy". If you can grasp such a concept. For those with modest means, San Miguel has some downscale joints. Alter Ego is located on the periférico next to a flooring retailer, near the Red Cross building.
Looks like a warehouse. That's because it is a warehouse.
At least it's not right next to a school.
Then there's Eros, the only place with evidence of design talent in its logo. The red kissy lips forming the center of the letter O make a mildly clever touch. But beyond the sign, appearances are not high on the owners' priority list. Let's face it. Eros is not much more than a utility, offering a commodity. Like gasoline.
"Fill 'er up, Bud. And check the oil."
La Cabaña styles itself a night club. The silhouette of a pole dancer gives the game away. Note: More kissy lips on the right.
I'm told that La Cabaña is a full-service club. Hot snacks are offered from 4-8 PM. Some nights you can get two-for-one beers. So patrons can fortify themselves with food and drink before the action starts.
Around 9 PM, taxicabs from Léon arrive at La Cabaña, full of young women whose clothing achieves levels of seductiveness that can only be dreamed of by gringas. I mean, gringas who are so inclined, of course. The ladies strut into the joint, knowing all eyes are on them, that they are the reason everyone is there.
Officially, so far as the club and the police are concerned, these women are B-girls. Their job is to get the patrons to buy them drinks. They ask the patrons, "Want some company?" The men order: tequila for themselves, a small glass of soda for the B-girls. Small to reduce bathroom downtime.
Personally, I have only had one experience with B-girls, on a business trip to Bangkok. In an exotic southeast asian bar named the Silver Spur (think about it), small women in bathing suits crowded around, parroting "Buy me cola?" Probably the only English words they knew. "Cola" turned out to be a tiny glass containing three ounces of orange soda which they would gulp down and then repeat, "Buy me cola?" $5 a pop. The game got old very quickly.
The girls at La Cabaña are called ficheras, because for each drink bought for them, they earn a ficha (chip). They also dance with patrons, for a fee. Each dance earns them a ficha. At the end of the evening, they cash in their fichas, earning their income for the night's work.
All good clean fun. Except the B-girls aren't willing to settle for the chicken feed they earn from fichas. And their patrons want more than a turn around the dance floor.
Two parties, each of whom has something the other wants. A market is created!
Negotiations take place. Potential services are explored. Prices are discussed. An agreement is reached, but before the deal can be sealed, a third party must be satisfied. La Cabaña stands to lose the services of one of its girls, a girl who would otherwise be drinking cola or selling dances. The client must compensate the club for loss of revenue. In Bangkok, this is called "buying her contract". Twenty bucks to the bartender, and you're on your way.
There are other nuances worth knowing about. Customers often are hard-pressed to come up with the price of the services they want. Some hope to befuddle the girl with booze, to their advantage. So they insist that the girls drink tequila, not cola.
The girls are pros. They've seen this ploy hundreds of times. They agree to drink shots of tequila, but they insist on a glass of Sprite to use as a chaser. Their drinks arrive. They slam the shot. They raise the glass of chaser, carefully prepared with lots of headroom by the complicit bartender, to their lips. And they spit the tequila back into the glasses of Sprite.
The client buys more drinks, matching her shot for shot, certain he is gaining the upper hand. Soon he's ready. Ready for the girl extract all of his money with minimum effort on her part.
Most of these places make rooms available for clients who are too tired or woozy to go home, or otherwise need a little horizontal time. Apparently, though, La Cabaña generates enough overflow that the adjacent Autohotel has sprung up to fill a niche.
Weary travelers don't stay here. Believe me, it isn't a place you'd want to bring your kids. Or your wife. Or even your neighbor's wife. But the teibolaras (table dancers) at La Cabaña find it perfectly suits their purposes.
I think I've covered all of the clubs. I'd rank them for quality, but I haven't actually patronized them, so you'll have to go on appearances. But at least you'll know what to tell the taxi driver.
[Oh God. That last sentence reminds me of a joke. A businessman arriving in Boston for a convention found that his first evening was free, and he decided to go find a good seafood restaurant that served scrod, a Massachusetts specialty. Getting into a taxi, he asked the cab driver, "Do you know where I can get scrod around here?" "Sure," said the cabdriver. "I know a few places... but I can tell you it's not often I hear someone use the third-person pluperfect indicative anymore."]