If you’ve been to any of my restaurants, you know that wall space is in short supply. Just about every inch is filled with a whole mess of objects ranging from exotic antiques to old photos and everything in between.
This makes for a better dining experience, sure, but those walls are packed because I’m a sucker for old and unique objects that tell some sort of story—especially when it comes to Texas, Houston, or any combination of the two. In this series, I’m picking out some sort of ephemera and sharing the story behind it. Why? I’m hoping it’ll connect with you the same way it connected to me—maybe you’ll find it wall-worthy, too.
When I first dreamt up this idea, there was really only one object that I considered starting with and, ironically enough it’s not hanging on a wall. If you drive down Kirby past Goode Company Barbeque, look out your right- or left-hand window and you’ll see the object that has attracted the attention of countless Houstonians and visitors, been the backdrop for plenty of proposals, and even made its way onto Mick Jagger’s social feed. I’m talking, of course, about the armadillo guarding the front of The Armadillo Palace. It’s a striking landmark in the area, and has a pretty striking backstory as well.
part one
Auction-Adjacent
My dad, Jim Goode, was the original founder of Goode Company. He passed away in 2016, and his life story could fill a book or two—I’m not going there today, but just know that we had a lot of things in common.
One of those things was a shared love of Americana. If it was made between 1865–1950 and related to this great country of ours, it was right up our alley.
This love of American ephemera eventually led us to Lebel’s Old West Show & Auction. This yearly gathering is a veritable gold mine for relics from the distant past, and would take over the town of Cody, Wyoming, for a few days while a bunch of western treasure hunters descended upon its brick saloons and dusty streets. The town hasn’t changed much since the items being sold by Lebel’s were new. After all, it is named after “Buffalo Bill” Cody.
During the early 2000s, this became a yearly pilgrimage for the two of us.
We’d fly up to Jackson Hole, rent a suburban, fill up the cooler, and make the four-hour drive across Yellowstone and over to Cody, soaking up some of the most stunning scenery on the planet.
The auction itself has filled many spaces on the walls of Goode Company restaurants over the years, but this particular trip was different. One lovely day in June, we were taking a break between auction lots and decided to go for a drive. During the trip, we had been discussing potential names for the building that would eventually become The Armadillo Palace, but nothing seemed to stick.
Then, on the outskirts of town, my dad spotted the armadillo.
Alright, spotted may be an overstatement. It’s tough not to spot a giant armadillo parked in the gravel driveway of a faux western town filled with souvenir shops and a greasy little diner. Neither of us had to say a word. We already knew we had to have it, but the 1973 Texas license plate meant we really had to have it, so in we went to the diner.
We asked who owned the fine shielded specimen in the parking lot, and one of the waitresses said it was Fay’s and that she was on the grill. After about a 30-minute wait, she appeared. Now, if you’ve been to a greasy spoon before and have seen the type of person who generally works the grill, you probably already have the perfect image of Fay in your head, so I’ll spare you the description. Let’s just say that the ash from her Marlboro Reds made it into more than a few omelets.
Long story short, after more negotiating than we thought necessary, my dad and I were the proud owners of a giant armadillo. We stood in the parking lot, gazing upon our newest piece of Americana, its shell baking in the hot Wyoming sun. We weren’t sure how just yet, but we knew this thing was going to play a part in our future. Then, another thought hit us...
How the hell were we going to get this thing back to Texas?
part two
Armadillo on a Roll
The armadillo was originally hauled in two pieces on two connected trailers—the body on one; the tail on the another, wagging back and forth as it rolled down the interstate.
You may be asking yourself, “why would you want to move it,” and the answer may be my favorite part of the story. Our new armadillo was actually an incognito DJ booth, once owned and operated by some entrepreneurial visionary in the Texas Panhandle.
At some point in history, this guy would get booked for a party or a wedding or whatever, hitch up his armadillo, and take off down the expansive highways of West Texas, ready to liven up the party by whatever means necessary. In fact, the interior still had all of his equipment—turntable PA system, the whole shebang. It even had long, green shag carpet to boot. Just when I thought I couldn’t love this armadillo more…
Alright, enough daydreaming. Back to the story at hand. Here we are, standing in the parking lot, wondering how we were going to get this thing a whopping 1,500 miles back to Houston. Remember that suburban rental I mentioned? Well, you may also remember that it included a cooler of beer, which may have informed our first idea—hitching the armadillo to the aforementioned suburban and hitting the road. After a few calls with the rental company, our plans came crashing down to earth when they told us that hauling a giant armadillo across the country didn’t line up with their policy. Go figure.
So, we did the next best thing and called a trucking company. They graciously loaded this thing up on a semi, got an oversized load permit for each state between here and Texas, and we hopped on a flight to Houston, where we’d await what would become our newest mascot.
part three
Planted at the Palace
By 2004, we were moving much of our pecan pie sales to the internet, and decided to transition our retail store to a honky-tonk hangout, intended to give established names and up-and-comers a place to peddle their tunes.
Many of Houston’s iconic honky tonks had shuttered their doors (Bianca’s Bar & Grill, anyone?), so we took it upon ourselves to add one back into the mix. And, after our armadillo arrived, we finally had the fodder we needed to come up with a fitting name: The Armadillo Palace.
The armadillo itself needed a little bit of work, so we cleaned it up, added the shiny mirrored scales to the outside, some LED red eyes, smoke that pours out of its nostrils once a day, and topped it off with a pair of longhorns—in case a giant armadillo wasn’t Texan enough. After getting the necessary hurricane-proof permits from the city, we put the armadillo in its rightful place, guarding the front of The Armadillo Palace, which opened in 2005.
Since then, the armadillo has taken on a bit of a mythic status, and rightfully so. I can’t tell you how many photo opps have popped up throughout the years—wedding proposals, prom dates, quinceaneras, and probably a few fender benders (lawyers, we claim no liability). Hell, even Mick Jagger took a selfie in front of it when The Rolling Stones passed through town in 2024.
I love that people love it. However, I love it in a different way. I’ve been to plenty of western auctions since my dad’s passing, but I can’t recreate those moments in the same way because he’s not here. At least, that’s mostly true. For me, Jim Goode is right here with me when I walk by that hulking mass of metal and mirrors and stereo equipment. I can’t help but think of those father-son trips, surveying the towering peaks of Yellowstone while we cruised toward Cody, or enduring the sweltering heat of its high-school gym while the auctioneers chattered on and on.
That armadillo has had quite a life between here and Wyoming, and I’m proud that we were the ones to bring it back to its home state. I’m not sure if that DJ is still in the business. I’m not sure if he’d even recognize his rolling DJ booth anyways. But, I like to think he’d enjoy knowing the armadillo is still giving Texans plenty of joy on the side of Kirby Drive, whether it’s a reminder of days gone by or simply putting a smile on the face of a driver as they head towards I-69. It’s a landmark for Houston, a landmark for my life, and we paid an arm and a leg to get it shipped—which means that damn armadillo isn’t going anywhere.
Photography by Steve Schwartz and from the Goode family archives.