By Richard Menzies

The editors have asked me to expand upon my assertion that Winnemucca is the Florence of Northern Nevada—a daunting assignment in view of the fact I have recently returned from Firenza, where I stayed for a time at the Hotel La Gioconda, famous because it was briefly the hideout for an art thief who 1911 made off with the Leonardo da Vinci masterpiece popularly known as the Mona Lisa.

As someone who also takes pictures, I slept fitfully.  Not because I feared the Arma dei Carabiniaeri were closing in, but because the mattress was quite lumpy.  The furnishings and bathroom fixtures were old, perhaps even older than those at my cabinette at the Scott Shady Court in Winnemucca, where I always choose to stay—not because it ‘s deluxe but because it just oozes character.  Next door is unit 61 that the ageless desk clerk Louise routinely assigns to the acclaimed San Francisco photographer Mark Citret.  Like me, Citret is enamored with the Shady Court.  An ethereal picture he shot inside the court’s enclosed swimming pool is featured in his book Along The Way.  More recently, Mark has trained his camera on the table flatware at Winnemucca’s excellent breakfast eatery The Griddle.

I know Mark because we’ve both been featured speakers at Winnemucca’s annual photography symposium, Shooting The West.  It is through STW that I’ve rubbed shoulders with a number of famous photographers and come to admire a community that otherwise I might have just driven through, or around, since Winnemucca, like most towns along the old Emigrant Trail, has been bypassed by the Interstate.  Bear in mind that my impressions are those of a seasonal visitor and not those of someone who lives and works there.  And, speaking as a tourist, my impression of Winnemucca is indeed similar to my impression of Florence; i.e., “Wow, how different everything around here is!”

Different, how?  Well, for one thing, Winnemucca doesn’t seem to take itself as seriously as so many small American towns do.  Perhaps it’s the unusual name with the somewhat comical syllables.  Perhaps it’s the decidedly un-American way that Winnemucca boosters shamelessly appropriate the scenic attractions of other places.  For example, there’s the 13-foot diameter log on Winnemucca Boulevard with the plaque and the sign that marks the beginning of the so-called “Winnemucca-to-the-Sea” highway.  Anyone who turns right onto US 95 in hopes of encountering the Pacific Ocean is in for a very long and dry, treeless, trip!

Walk around Winnemucca’s business district and you’ll discover a variety of interesting restaurants, shops and craft houses.  You can buy a custom-made mountain bike or a handcrafted saddle; you can find a styling salon for your toy poodle or a mechanic who knows how to change a tire on a 350-ton ore hauler.  Explore Old Town and be dazzled by a variety of architectural styles, reflecting a hodgepodge of ethnicities combined with a laissez-faire building code.  Here and there you will come upon impressive structures such as St. Paul’s Roman Catholic Church.  Okay, maybe it’s not the Duomo, but it’s pretty darn nice.  Does the Humboldt River measure up to the Arrno?  Is the Hanson Street Overpass on a par with the Ponte de Vecchio?  Well, probably not, but I will say that The Martin is as good as any restaurant I ate at in Italy.  And it’s not even Italian; it’s Basque.

Here’s the thing about a Basque restaurant:  You will not walk away hungry.  In fact, you’ll be lucky if you can walk away, period.  This because of the Basque aperitif known as the picon, or picon punch.  Tradition holds that you’re supposed to knock back one or two picons in the front bar as you wait to be seated in the family-style dining room.  This is to ensure that you will have absolutely no inhibitions when you find yourself seated next to an erstwhile perfect stranger.  But don’t worry about making a fool of yourself, because chances are your table mates will be just as loaded as you are.

I was first introduced to the picon by Miguel Olano, late proprietor of the ancient Winnemucca Hotel, where even the Z-Brick facade is listed on the national historic register.  Watching Old Mike mix a picon was like watching Michaelangelo paint.  It was pure artistry!   Into the glass went a jigger of this, a jigger of that, followed by a dash of club soda—except that I don’t think Mike actually added the club soda.  He just waved the bottle above the brew whilst muttering some sort of Basque incantation. Then came a twist of lemon and a quick stir, followed by blissful semi-consciousness.

Come suppertime the dining room would suddenly come alive with comely serving girls who seemingly appeared out of nowhere.  Mike’s son ran the kitchen, and did so with an iron hand.  I remember once Gaylen Rowell sent back his steak, asking if he could please have a smaller one.  Presently Mike Jr. appeared with a steak twice as big as the first.

“You eat this!” he ordered, and Gaylen, terrified, did as he was told.  Afterward, we always referred to Mike Jr.—though never to his face—as “the Steak Nazi.”

I regret to report that Mike Jr. has now joined Mike Sr. in the local graveyard.  “His liver exploded,” is how Larry Angier explained it, although it’s hard to imagine just how much alcohol it would take to cause a Basque liver to explode.  For the time being, the Winnemucca Hotel is shuttered, but we who cherish it remain hopeful that somewhere back in Basque Country is a an heir willing to pick up and relocate to a part of the New World that in so many ways isn’t all that much different from the Old One.

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Richard Menzies has long been enamored with the American West. He was born in Price, Utah, and over the years that followed, he has traveled and documented it with his camera and his pen. He has authored hundreds of magazine and newspaper articles and has exhibited widely. His previous books are Passing Through: An Existential journey Across America’s Outback and The Short, Short Hitchhiker.