This old steakhouse transforms into SoCal’s hottest salsa dancing center at night

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In this working-class commerce city, where cars speed by on the highways and the Citadel Outlets tower above the neighborhoods, there’s a steakhouse named Steven’s. By day, this is a classic and charming restaurant, where workers go for quiet, hearty meals.

But every Sunday night, the outside world disappears.

As waiters rummage through starchy buttons, couples lead each other by the hand toward the dance floor in the restaurant’s ballroom, where the Stevens’ Sunday tradition of salsa has brought the community together for 73 years.

An eight-piece band plays brass, electric guitar, bongos, and synthesizers, filling the room with music as the dancers twirl in a dizzying array. One attendee, 29-year-old Amy Hernandez, greets some familiar faces before stepping onto the dance floor, twirling with confident steps and a big smile on her face.

Hernandez is part of a renaissance that has young people excited about salsa music — and flocking to Stevens. She grew up watching her father dance salsa, but began diving back into the genre on her own to find comfort during the Los Angeles wildfires earlier this year. She credits Bad Bunny’s “Debí Tirar Más Fotos” for re-sparking her interest.

“It was very healing for me,” she says of the album, which blends vintage Puerto Rican boricua samples with Latin dance and reggaeton influences for an emotional visualization of Puerto Rican identity.

When college friends recommended Stevens an affordable place to dance, Hernandez mentioned it while passing it along to her father. “He laughed and said, ‘I remember that place. I used to dance there, too,'” Hernandez says.

Increasingly, mainstream artists in Latin reggaeton are returning to tradition. Besides the music of Bad Bunny, who will headline the Super Bowl halftime show, you can find classic salsa references in reggaeton star Rauw Alejandro’s latest album “Cosa Nuestra,” and in Colombian pop star Karol G’s multi-genre summer album “Tropicoqueta,” which will be at the heart of Coachella’s main set.

“You can feel the younger energy,” says Jennifer Aguirre, Stevens’ longtime salsa coach. “I’m really happy to see a younger generation playing salsa. Because I was a little worried. I didn’t know how salsa would last.”

Los Angeles has a unique relationship with salsa, the Afro-Caribbean dance that originated from the Cuban mambo. In cities like Miami and New York, salsa arrived with Cuban and Puerto Rican immigrants. Instead, salsa’s influence in Los Angeles came from the Golden Age of Hollywood, where Latin dancing in films produced a unique, more flamboyant Angeleno style, characterized by quick turns and theatrical action, according to salsa historian. Juliet McMinis.

The 1990s marked another heyday for the genre, when West Coast pioneers like the Vasquez brothers and the first-ever dance group Salsa Brava sparked a local dance craze. Vazquez’s team introduced the “on-1” step and created a more dramatic, flamboyant style of salsa music in Los Angeles that brought crowds to competitions and conventions during the 2000s. The late legendary promoter Albert Torres founded the Los Angeles Salsa Convention in 1999 First conference on the West Coast, attracting a global audience to Angeleno Salsa music.

Opened by Stephen Phillipan in 1952 (and located on Stephens Place), Stephens Inn Commerce became a local hub for Latin music. “The interesting part is that the area was not Latin at all,” says Jim Phillipan, Stephen’s grandson and now the restaurant’s third-generation owner. “My grandfather had the foresight that this genre would be the future.”

Jim remembers his childhood growing up in the restaurant. “We’ll have hundreds of people on Sundays,” he says. “In the dance hall, in the restaurant, everyone was dancing salsa, and it was unbelievable. My father took over in the 1970s, and I ran it with him in the 1990s.”

However, by the 2000s, it was clear that another genre was taking over the Latin dance scene: bachata, started by smooth-singing New York stars like Prince Royce and Romeo Santos. Salsa quickly went from being a trendy music to being somewhat old-fashioned.

Aguirre has witnessed the genre losing interest firsthand. “It was like an instant switch,” Aguirre says. “Salsa wasn’t popular anymore, and people would walk to the other side of the restaurant to take bachata lessons.”

The pandemic has also dealt a major blow to local salsa clubs, as their peers in the legacy dance club industry have fallen to lower attendance rates and higher rent. Last year, two historic venues, the Conga Room and the Maya Room, closed permanently.

Stevens almost suffered the same fate. Financial burdens during the pandemic made Jim consider closing for good. But he can’t help but think about the responsibility of his family’s legacy and the special place Stevens holds for local dancers.

“It’s very emotional for me, because I have four generations in this restaurant, and now my daughter works here,” he says.

When Stevens reopened, the community returned in droves, ushering in a new era of excitement for salsa music.

These days, at the beginning of each class, dance instructor Miguel “Miguelito” Aguirre announces the same rule.

“Forget what happened today, forget your week, forget all the bad stuff. Leave it at the door,” Aguirre says. “It’ll be better because we’ll dance salsa.”

Aguirre has taught salsa at Stevens for 30 years. In many ways, the steakhouse helped shape his life. There he discovered his love for teaching dance and much more.

“I started coming here in the ’90s, sneaking out the back door,” Aguirre says. “I was a teenager, not old enough to show my ID, but one day, Jim just said, ‘You guys can’t come in the back anymore.’ You can come in from the front.’ “Then one day he said, ‘Hey, we’re missing teachers. They’re not coming. Can you guys teach the class?’ And I’m still here.”

Jennifer Aguirre, a fellow dance teacher at Stevens, is his wife. I met him one day at Stevens’ annual Halloween party.

“He asked me to join his class because they needed more girls,” Jennifer says with a laugh.

Jennifer now teaches the beginners class, while Miguel teaches the intermediate level. But once 10pm hits, it’s time for social dancing. The entire floor comes together and the familiar community converges. If attendees are lucky, they might catch Jennifer and Miguel, a duo who dances smoothly, darting, stepping and diving effortlessly.

On a recent Sunday night, the restaurant’s low-lit atmosphere met the purple lights of the dance room, with people sitting everywhere to catch a glimpse of the moves on display. Steaks and potatoes cooked in butter in the kitchen filled the air while the dance floor came alive with women in dresses and men in shiny shoes sliding to the beat of the music. Miguel Aguirre manned the DJ stand, asked two singles if they knew each other and encouraged them to dance.

Gregorio Sens was one of the solo dancers on the floor, swaying with partners easily with Miguel’s encouragement. Years ago, his friend, who frequented Stevens, dragged Sens out dancing on social media, telling him it would be the best way to meet people and open up.

As someone who began dancing in front of others with anxiety, Sens now performs in Stevens’ dance shows. He says that constantly returning to the historic steakhouse floor and immersing himself in the supportive community not only changed his approach to dancing, but brought him out of his shell.

“I tell anyone, if you’re afraid to dance, just get out there,” Sens says. “There is a community waiting for you.”