Dallas' Victory Park Struggles to Deliver a Win

In October 2007, Dallas businessman Ross Perot Jr. was featured in a USA Today story about the unlikely rise of urban living in Texas. Photographed on the balcony of the towering Ghostbar, at the apex of the posh W Hotel, Perot looked confident as he discussed why developments such as his Victory Park—a $1 billion glimmering collection of high-rises, pricey restaurants and shops jutting from the American Airlines Center—were the Next Big Thing.

• SARA KERENS

  

• SARA KERENS

  

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Web extra: More photos from around Victory Park.

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Victory Park, Ross Perot Jr., Tom Hicks, American airlines Center, Hillwood, West Village

"You can move into a beautiful downtown home, walk to the arts, walk to a basketball game, walk to restaurants," Perot said. "There is something unique in the downtown fabric that you couldn't get in the suburbs." 

Only these days, at his Victory Park development, that fabric isn't getting much wear.

On a Saturday in January, a little after midnight, there are only a few people milling about Perot's district. Most of them are headed to the Ghostbar, one of the few places that hasn't shut down for the night. At the AT&T Plaza, the heart of Victory Park that fronts the southern edge of AAC, two mammoth super screens blare a series of artsy images to a crowd of, well, no one.  Billed as "one of the largest outdoor digital mediums in the world," the screens were supposed to be a landmark attraction in the glamorous development. Now they just seem a once-coveted Christmas gift tossed awkwardly aside.

In startling contrast, a few miles across town, in the cozy, older North Henderson Avenue neighborhood just off North Central Expressway, there remains a veritable parade of nightlife. Many of the men are dressed in snug jeans and untucked shirts; the women are mostly clad in denim and tight-fitting blouses. All of them, as if it were a law, are fashionably thin. On both sides of Henderson, running nearly a mile toward Ross Avenue, people crowd the sidewalks and spill into the streets, enhancing the authentic neighborhood feel of the area's blend of homespun hangouts and high-priced restaurants.

While Victory Park, the well-hyped, taxpayer-funded district, can't buy a crowd, North Henderson has gained immense popularity as if by accident. The same tale of two developments can be told about Victory Park and the West Village. On a Tuesday lunch hour in January, there is barely a soul wandering through Victory Park Lane, the boulevard that runs through the heart of the district. Meanwhile, at the always-bustling West Village in Uptown, parking is hard to find—as is an empty table at Taco Diner.

More than a decade earlier, Perot named his project "Victory," which seemed a reflection of his epic ambitions, as if the gods themselves had predetermined its success. He didn't want to open another Cheesecake Factory or an Old Navy in the shadow of a new, publicly funded arena. He wanted an upscale, one-of-a-kind retail and residential district, one that would surprise and titillate. His would be a destination district that the right kind of people would seek out.

Perot didn't apologize for his pretensions. Interviewed by the Wall Street Journal Online in an October 2006 story about the kind of crowd he wanted to frequent the American Airlines Center, he said, "A U2 concert is fabulous. KISS, not so good."

But now, nearly three years after its first shops opened, Victory Park still hasn't found itself. Even before the economy went south, the district often turned into a ghost town when the arena was dark. Ritzy retailers have fled, while other businesses are struggling to hang on. Hillwood, the Perot real estate firm that runs the development, still has big ambitions for its development but recently postponed plans to build a second luxury hotel and now hopes to shed Victory's exclusive image by leasing to more affordable shops and restaurants. The KISS crowd, or any crowd, is now welcome.

"I don't think they spent this kind of money thinking it was going to be this quiet," says Mike Malin, an owner of the parent company that owns the Board Room sports bar in Victory Park. "I think Hillwood put together an impressive mix of nightlife and restaurants, and they expected the community to embrace it more."

It's an unlikely turn of events for a master-planned, 75-acre district that had everything going for it: A rich developer, a prime location, ultra-modern architecture and those towering screens reminiscent of Times Square. On top of those amenities, the AAC is home to the Dallas Mavericks, the Dallas Stars and nearly every musical act popular enough to sell out its 12,500-seat concert capacity.

But Victory Park is still trying to secure its place in the city. On special occasions, like New Year's Eve, when the plaza teems with an electric crowd, the district feels like a public square, a space for collective celebration. No other part of Dallas—not even a resurging downtown core—holds that promise. But at other times, the district seems like a flop—an ill-conceived, sterile mega-development that is as predictable as a shopping mall.

Perot's project doesn't seem like a sure thing anymore. It didn't help that Hillwood bungled the debut, opening with too few stores, and all of them pricey. Or that Victory Park is a destination location that is difficult to find and has innate design flaws that seem to steer foot traffic away from its retailers rather than toward them. And then there's the economy, which continues to sour and decimate high-end retail.