It was near the close of business, and all The Wife wanted was a sope. Seven months pregnant, she nearly burst into tears when told the kitchen ran out hours ago.
After a long day of being on her feet behind a hot range, Marie Knechel whipped up some dough and fixed a craving-killing sope, making a pregnant woman one happy camper.
That’s Camacho’s Place, and that’s the idea behind its longevity and its earned loyalty, an “idea” bigger than the food it serves.
Camacho’s is that institution that transcends mere function, a thread in the fabric of the history of the Imperial Valley and in the hearts of its customers.
This notion that state regulations and the machinery of bureaucracy could threaten the operation of a business that seems to exist outside of the march of time is depressing.
That change could close a place loved because of how unchanged and uncompromised it has been for 65 years is a larger battle against the loss of innocence.
We have a business that has stayed true to its roots, unchanged in its décor and location out in the country, practically in the middle of farm fields, owned by the same family, serving the same good food today that it did to farmers and farmworkers alike for six decades.
Camacho’s exists as an example of where the Valley started and what people still want to hold onto in the midst of unavoidable progress.
Camacho’s is like stepping into a time machine. For just an hour, over a famous special quesadilla and a good guacamole taco, we can share timeless memories with friends and teach younger family members why Camacho’s is special, what it meant to us growing up.
Connection. Family. Community. You see those ideals at play on the walls in newspaper clippings celebrating the accomplishments of local schoolchildren and high school athletes. Much like Camacho’s position as a time capsule, it’s also a nurturing womb of positivity in a rat race that at times can be so much negativity.
How many men have taken their sons to Camacho’s for lunch on opening day of dove season after the morning hunt, sharing in a tradition many of them probably shared with their own dads?
How many families have stopped by after church on Sunday? How many birthdays, anniversaries or graduation dinners have filled the long tables in the adjoining room?
My first trip to Camacho’s was with my Aunt Cathy when I was 4 or 5 years old. It wasn’t until I took my own children that I began to understand the attraction was deeper than any dish I ate.
I felt like I was in my grandmother’s house, physically and emotionally. It was the pale yellow walls, the ever-present threat that a dust bunny might drop into my salsa from a vent, it was the worn red and white table coverings and the chipped plastic cups.
Most of all, it was the late Marie Knechel herself and her daughter Rosie Cuellar; sweet, loving and inviting souls who were just crabby enough (Mrs. Knechel in her later years) and daffy enough (Rosie, who can talk your ear off) to make me feel like I was at home, being teased, talked to and loved by Grandma.
The personality of the proprietors has been a key to Camacho’s success and chief to its charm, and that’s among the reasons it will survive.
The right people are doing what they need to do to ensure its survival. And yes, that will mean deep pockets having dug down to help out. That is not the norm in a world where private business must live and die by its own merits.
Camacho’s Place, though, is no longer a private business. It hasn’t been for years. It’s a public institution. People aren’t rallying to save the birthplace of the special quesadilla, they’re rallying to save the heart and soul of the Valley.
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