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| The Valencia Hotel, Anaheim, as it appeared in the 1920s. |
Fire destroyed Anaheim’s historic Valencia Hotel on March 4, 1977. I was once the kind of place where Hollywood stars like Bebe Daniels, Wallace Beery and Mabel Norman stopped for the night. But by the late 1970s, the Valencia was in rough shape and was already slated for demolition as part of the city’s "redevelopment" plan. During the conflagration, two firemen suffered minor injuries, one tenant was hospitalized for smoke inhalation, and other tenants escaped with their lives but not their belongings. Looking back on the hotel’s past, local historian Jim Sleeper (whose work is always worth revisiting) penned the following article for the March 26, 1977 edition of the Anaheim Bulletin:
The Saga of an Anaheim Landmark
Jim Sleeper
TRABUCO CANYON – Word having reached these parts that the Valencia, that grand old lady, has expired in a blaze of glory, I am fearful lest the story of her birth may pass with her. Considering that she occupied a corner which for 105 years was the most successful hotel site in Anaheim, readers might enjoy a bit of nostalgia.
As old-timers know, the story of the Valencia is inextricably tied to that of its predecessor, the Commercial and both to their long-time proprietor and genial host, John B. Ziegler.
Born in 1863 in Alsace-Lorraine (then French but soon German), Ziegler emigrated to the U.S. at age 17. Within a few years he had established himself as a prominent New York restauranteur. Along with a successful career he also acquired a French-born wife and several offspring. One son proving “sickly,” the family sought relief in the healing balm and temperate clime of southern California—long a “haven for eastern asthmatics and consumptives.”
The Zieglers arrived in Anaheim early in 1905, unfortunately too late to save young John. Burying his grief in work, Ziegler invested in a down-at-the-heels hotel on the corner of Lemon and Lincoln (then Center Street). Built in 1871 by Henry Kroeger—reputedly for $40,000, which was twice what it cost—the Anaheim Hotel, as it was first called, was one of many erected during the first flush of California’s health boom. In its prime, “the salubrity of Anaheim’s weather” kept it filled with “enfeebled tourists”; that is, those sick enough to come west and rich enough to afford it.
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| Ad for the Valencia Hotel's cafe in the April 21, 1916 Santa Ana Register. |
Kroeger’s hotel opened on January 27, 1872, managed by another of the original Mother Colonists, Henry Bremmermann. Noted particularly for the “salubrity of its bar,” the place saw a passing parade of lessees, including former town mayor Max Nebelung. As Anaheim’s charms as a health mecca faded, however, so did the hotel’s patronage.
Eventually, its name changed to “The Commercial”—an indication that its clientele had dwindled from the affluently ill to the itinerant drummer. These brash knights of the road displayed their wares in the “sample rooms” on its creaky second floor.
In 1905 Walter Neipp sold the Commercial to Ziegler. Thanks to the latter’s skill with French cuisine and a well-stocked bistro, the Commercial revived and once again became “the scene of many a joyous social event.”
John Zeigler was a man compounded equally of vim and vision. While the German industry in him made his hotel hum, its austere limitations galled his French sense of flair. In February of 1915, he commissioned Anaheim’s foremost architect, Eugene Durfee, “to spare no pains in working out details for every convenience that is called for in a first class hostelry.”
Zeigler himself drew up the original sketches. These called for a structure fronting 70 feet on Center Street by 103 on Lemon. The building’s first story (of five intended) was to be of red ruffled brick with cream colored artificial stone trim, interspersed with impressive arches. An extravagant dining room was planned to seat 1,000 but costs ultimately trimmed that figure by a zero. Surviving, however, were such metropolitan amenities as “an elegant bar, push-button elevators, a writing room, ladies’ parlor, steam heat and telephones.” In all there were to be 57 sleeping rooms, six private tub baths, 18 private showers and six public ones—for whoever got there first. Uppermost in Ziegler’s dream and the building was a fifth story “glass-enclosed” roof garden, with connecting elevator and private dinging room with a flag pole on top.” This lofty innovation, he explained was to give diners “an exciting vista of downtown Anaheim.” The tab for all this elegance was to run nothing short of $50,000.
CITY HALL ARCHITECT
Four months after commission, the Valencia came off the drawing board. Durfee’s plan was declared every bit as impressive as his other civic monuments, which included such landmarks as the Odd Fellows’ building, the First National Bank, the Yungbluth, Carroll and Fisher buildings, and the old city hall. Ziegler’s initial idea was to connect his hotel with the second story of the building to its east, then occupied by the Anaheim Bank. This 30 x 70-foot annex was to contain the ladies’ parlor and writing room. Apparently Durfee exercised his architectural prerogative, for that weird-looking appendage never materialized.
Prior to construction, of course, the old Commercial had to come down. Feeling obliged to provide for his patrons and needing an office in the meantime, Ziegler had a sheet iron shed erected south of his lot “as a temporary accommodation for the bar.”
On May 28, 1915, destruction of the 44-year-old hotel began. The papers kindly put its replacement cost at $45,000, though it is doubtful that Ziegler realized that sum from salvage. Most of the Commercial’s materials went for firewood.
Twelve months later, contractor Conliffe pronounced the new Valencia finished. While departing from Ziegler’s original concept (particularly the price—he was $25,000 over budget), Anaheim greeted it for what it was, “quite the smartest looking building in town.”
Saddening to Ziegler, the “glass-enclosed roof garden with connecting elevator and private dining room with the flag pole on top” had to be sacrificed. Also missing were the globe lights sitting on ornamental mounts which outlined the roof, though their bulbless pedestals survived to the hotel’s end. By way of consolation, Ziegler did acquire a good paying tenant in the Anaheim National Bank. It occupied the choice corner spot downstairs.
On May 6, 1916, the Board of Trade dedicated the hotel in the Valencia’s posh of somewhat bobtailed banquet room. This was the first affair in a free-flowing, three-day champagne salute footed by Ziegler which one visitor observed “produced more pops than a Mexican revolution.”
That comment was not untinged by envy. It came from a Santa Ana reporter. Anaheim’s penchant for fermented grape juice was long viewed sourly in the county seat, which “went dry” as early as 1903. Nor did Ziegler do much to appease town relations when he boasted in print that his was “the only first-class hotel between Los Angeles and San Diego.” While true, the parched citizens of Santa Ana were not overjoyed to be reminded that their town “couldn’t touch the Valencia with a hotel fresher than 1887.”
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| Illustration of the Valencia Hotel's ceiling by Diann Marsh. |
Never a robust man, except for enthusiasm, John Ziegler enjoyed his triumph but a few years. During his last lingering illness which began in 1918, his feisty French wife took over. Regrettably, she lacked his knack for charming the press. Indeed, after the Plain Dealer came out with an editorial espousing the “dry cause,” she ran owner-editor Paul Hester out of the Valencia, “scratched up his face and dragging him a block through town by the coattails.” Unchivalrously, Hester filed assault charges. To get off the hook, Mrs. Ziegler had to make a public apology in court. Her Gallic sensitivities ruffled by this indignity, she fired off a letter to the Plain Dealer “which contained some rather crisp language.” The charge was revived; this time as a Federal offense as she had used the U.S. mails. But that tremor subsides into insignificance alongside two far more serious upheavals soon to shake the Valencia.
On July 17, 1919, John Ziegler, age 56, died at his home on North Clementine. His demise was attributed to stomach trouble, but all who knew him were convinced that it was actually remorse for what he felt was the passing of gracious living in America. The spirit really went out of him on January 16, six months earlier.
On that day, Prohibition became the law of the land. For Anaheim, it was the end of two great eras.
As for the story that a time capsule containing a bottle of champagne lies buried within the Valencia, that mystery will not be solved until the last brick has fallen. Nonetheless, old buildings have a way of turning up such novelties. In June of 1915, for example, when the old Commercial came down, Art Moore, the contractor, discovered a walking stick hidden between its walls. The cane was about 30 inches in length and weighed about five pounds, its handle woven of rawhide. A card tied to the stick bore the inscription, “Jany., 1897. This cane was used to kill Mr. Rasin in Evenston, Wyo. He was a million Air cattle king.”
Along that line—but happier—one suspects that Anaheim has yet to hear the last toast from John B. Ziegler.
BLOGGER'S/EDITOR'S EPILOGUE
Sleeper’s prediction was exactly right. The time capsule was found, providing the expected wine along with a toast from Ziegler. The capsule was about the size of large soup can and contained copies of the Anaheim Gazette and Orange County Plain Dealer from August 1915, as well as a bottle of Repsold Sparkling Moselle white wine from Napa, California. The capsule also included handwritten notes from John Zieglar, including one which read, "The finder of this bottle may drink the contents and make a toast commemorating those who were instrumental in building this hotel and a toast also for the future of greater Anaheim." Another of Zeigler's notes described the hopeful scene at the opening of the hotel: "This is the beginning of greater prosperity and continued advancement of this thriving little city."
The wine had turned brown and vinegary, but the suggested toast was made on April 28, 1977. Among those participating in the time capsule opening were the hotel's last owner, Amil Shab, and Zeigler's daughter, Mabel Masterson, who described the wine as "terrible."
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