In February 1540 an expedition of 350 Spaniards and 1,300 Mexican Indian allies set out from Compostela, on the Pacific coast of Mexico, to explore the unknown lands that lay north of New Spain. Their leader was Francisco Vásquez de Coronado, the governor of Nueva Galicia. In addition to six hundred packhorses and mules, they brought a herd of five hundred cattle and a flock of five thousand sheep.
Just after sunrise on the morning of August 9, 2012, in the Houston suburb of Katy, Scott Catt, a fifty-year-old structural engineer, was awakened by the buzzing of his alarm clock in the master bedroom of the apartment he shared with his twenty-year-old son, Hayden, and his eighteen-year-old daughter, Abby. The apartment was in Nottingham Place, a pleasant, family-oriented complex that featured a resort-size swimming pool and a large fitness center.
I was not born in Texas, nor was I raised here, and in 1999, when I first arrived to take a job as a reporter in a small desert town west of the Pecos, I was behind the wheel of a car that seemed comically out of place, as sure a sign as any that I wasn’t from around these parts.
Rred Renk, a water-purifier salesman living near the border, hatched a bullish idea. He’d been obsessed with matadors ever since the age of fifteen, when he watched the Mexican bullfighter Pepe Luis Vázquez perform at a ring in Chihuahua City called La Esperanza. When Renk was in his twenties, he’d even decided to try the sport himself. He fought bulls for five years as an aspiring matador, until a thousand-pound beast’s horn punctured his upper leg and tore through his stomach, in 1967. Later, he watched his son David become the seventh American bullfighter to earn the title of matador, performing all over Mexico as “El Texano.”
After his son’s retirement, in 2000, Renk began to miss the drama of the ring. He was restless at his rural home in La Gloria, population 100, and fantasized about bulls pretty much constantly. He decided to build a bullfighting ring on his sixty-acre ranch. Never mind that he would have difficulty drawing a crowd to his town, about 55 miles northwest of McAllen, and that Americans weren’t interested in the sport. (Only a handful of permanent rings currently exist in the United States—all in California and all supported by Portuguese communities.) But Renk, who was 65 at the time, was tenacious, and he was experienced, having organized and promoted bullfights in places like the Astrodome in the eighties. David, now 51, lives just down the road and remembers, “His determination was off the charts.” One day, Renk marched a few yards away from his ranch gate into a pasture shaded by mesquite and ebony trees and began measuring paces for a ring one hundred feet across.
“I call it the ballet of life, not the ballet of death,” the 77-year-old said on a sunny morning this past spring, in a voice hoarse from Marlboros. Behind a fence, a herd of 29 cows—and one four-year-old San Mateo breeding bull, who often participates in the events at Renk’s Santa Maria Bullring—grazed in a field dotted with magenta winecups. Though traditional bullfighting is practiced on the Mexican side of the border, it is illegal in the United States, and in Renk’s ring, the bullfighter’s kill is only symbolic: instead of driving a sword through the animal’s withers and into its heart, the matador reaches over the bull’s horns and plucks a flower affixed to the hide with Velcro and a little glue, an action that requires a close dance with the animal and thus drives crowds to their feet.
Everyone told him he was crazy to open a bullfighting ring so far from a metropolitan area, but those detractors hadn’t anticipated who would show up: the winter Texans. His first event, in 2001, packed the stands, exceeding his expectations, and while violence along the border has scared off some customers in the past couple of years, busloads of tourists still travel from nearby RV parks to his ring, which has a seating capacity of around one thousand (“depending on how wide their butts are”).
The tourists who make the journey and the local ranchers who keep box seats for the main season, from January through March, have witnessed shows by some of Mexico’s best matadors. Last February, for example, Renk brought in Cesar Castañeda, a world-class matador from Tijuana, and Isaac Leal Montalvo, a young matador from Monterrey. No matter their prominence, though, it’s the female bullfighters who make the strongest impression, Renk says. “You talk about a matador, they don’t know who the hell he is, but the ‘Mayan Princess’ . . .” he trails off, nodding knowingly.
Renk has watched his fights captivate fans, even though many don’t follow the sport. “The Spaniards—all Latin people—refer to the passion for bullfighting as el gusano, the worm, and it eats at you the rest of your life. El gusano never leaves you.” —Katy Vine
Isaac Leal Montalvo before a fight in February.
Longino Mendoza, a former bullfighter who now assists younger fighters, in the bullring's small chapel.
Four years ago, things looked bleak for Houston’s Cheniere Energy. It had about $3 billion in debt, its stock price had plunged from more than $40 to less than $1 in a year’s time, and bankruptcy seemed imminent. Cheniere had made one of the biggest wrong-way bets in the history of natural gas, a commodity that is the poster child for wrong-way bets.
Sometimes all you have to do is ask, or rather, keep asking—and asking, and asking.
UT, how do your fans love thee? Let us count the burnt orange ways. T-shirts, both sleeved and sleeveless. Black-trimmed polos. Logoed golf shirts. Solid dress shirts. Pinstriped dress shirts. Fine, medium and broad-checked dress shirts. Tucked in. Un-tucked. Half-tucked. Sequin-dusted blouses. Polka-dot dresses. Clingy jersey dresses. Bra-strap revealing tank tops. On black hats. On white hats. Toddler-sized football jerseys. Infant-sized cheerleader outfits. Columbia PFG fishing wear. Track jackets.
Known as the King of Cheeses, there is only one Parmigiano Reggiano, which can only be produced in five regions in North Central Italy. Parmigiano Reggiano is a DOP (Denominazione Origine Protetta) cheese, which means a specially protected artisan product. And wheels of Parmigiano Reggiano shipped directly from Italy are one of the highlights of Passaporto Italia at Central Market!
One recent Sunday afternoon, Dale Watson, the Austin country singer and guitarist with a signature white pompadour, zipped along winding wooded roads near Dripping Springs in his 2012 Mini Cooper.
A Beef Boss’s Recipes