That helps explain the mass appeal. "I like the show," says El Parral's manager, a gentleman who would not share his name. "It's humorous."
Throughout the Dallas-Fort Worth area, these shows are a popular form of entertainment, advertised by cheaply printed and photocopied fliers posted on restaurant doors and walls and word of mouth. It's not life on the down low, but neither is it promiscuously open.
Danny Fulgencio
Danny Fulgencio
Danny Fulgencio
Danny Fulgencio
Danny Fulgencio
Danny Fulgencio
Danny Fulgencio
Danny Fulgencio
Danny Fulgencio
Danny Fulgencio
Danny Fulgencio
Danny Fulgencio
Danny Fulgencio
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Some female fans bring their husbands. A Chilean man with a salt-and-pepper mane and sporting a white T-shirt, who is more interested in tortilla chips than thigh-high 6-inch heeled boots and sequins, says he tolerates the shows for the sake of marital concord. "It's fine. I come here because my wife likes the acts. To me, it's just OK. I don't really care for it."
"I love the costumes, the music," his wife pipes in.
Duarte earnestly strives for consummate professionalism, making her own wigs at a cost of $500 with 70 percent human hair. She rehearses for long hours on her two days off, an ethic that has earned her accolades from her peers. Trophies and tiaras awarded by nightclub competitions and pageants going as far back as 1991 are displayed behind a glass case in her living room. That dedication and celebrity has, in turn, earned her a four-bedroom house with a manicured lawn in southern Dallas.
Her home is decorated with family photos, mementos, a religious altar with a framed photo of the Sacred Heart on a heavy wood dining table. Oprah was on the flat-screen television. It's an almost unremarkable place. The garage, repurposed into a commodious wardrobe, is the only distinguishing feature. Some of the dresses were custom-made by Duarte and her mother. The latter, whom Duarte calls her best friend, owns Gaby's Illusions, a beauty salon bearing the name of Duarte's show. Duarte's goal is to become a beautician once she retires from performing in her mid-40s.
She relates this while sitting at poolside at her house during a weekend party. While she speaks, a toddler runs past. His mother, Gallo, a butch lesbian in sagging jean shorts and an extra-large polo shirt, urges the child to slow down lest he slip and fall. Camilla Cavalli and Duarte's roommate, her cousin Luis, splashes about in the pool. A young, shirtless man lifts weights. Two young ladies in painted-on polo shirts and hot pants are attempting to push one another into the pool. The adults are drinking beer and eating overcooked, rubbery shrimp. It's a typical weekend scene of food and family.
Food, family, music—perhaps that explains why shows like Duarte's are so popular in Dallas' taquerías. Food is a cultural touchstone for Latinos. Food and family go together like chips and salsa, and where there's food, there's music.
And where there's food and music, there's a chance for a small restaurant to make a profit, even if draw isn't always what's on the plate. While the dishes at Los Altos de Jalisco are excellent, El Parral's fare is oily and overpriced—four tacos are $12. But food is not why people come to El Parral. It's the nightly acts that draw the crowds.
Despite the gaudy jokes, nothing particularly seamy appears to be at play at these sleepy restaurants, places where waitresses spend more time watching soap operas than refilling water glasses or running combo platters to tables, most of which sit empty until show time. Once the shows start, what rakes in more money than the food is the beer—beer that is freely given to the performers by working-class men wearing wedding rings.
These shows, raucous as they are, smothered with colorful language and sexual innuendo, are captivating spectacles, made more so when juxtaposed with the banality of the performers' lives.