Phoenix is a weird place for historic preservation. We tear things down. We love stucco and new builds. But back in 2015, everyone thought the narrative was shifting when DeSoto Central Market Phoenix opened its massive, glass-paned doors on the corner of Central and Roosevelt. It was supposed to be the "third place"—that elusive spot between work and home where you could grab a coffee, eat a bao bun, buy organic kale, and drink a craft beer without ever leaving the building.
It didn't last.
If you walk by that corner today, the ghost of the 1928 C.P. Stephens DeSoto six-cylinder Chrysler dealership still looms. The neon sign is iconic. The bones are beautiful. Yet, the interior has seen more turnover than a busy brunch spot on a Sunday morning. Understanding what happened to DeSoto isn't just a trip down memory lane for hungry locals; it’s a masterclass in the brutal reality of the adaptive reuse business model in a rapidly gentrifying downtown.
The High Hopes of Central and Roosevelt
Ken Phaneuf had a vision. He saw this dilapidated auto dealership—a relic from an era when Roosevelt Row was basically just a dirt road and some auto shops—and decided it needed to be a food hall. This was before the Pemberton, before the Churchill, and long before the massive apartment blocks started suffocating the skyline.
The concept was simple but risky. You take 8,000 square feet of historic brick and steel, fill it with half a dozen independent micro-restaurants, and provide a massive communal seating area. It was basically a high-end mall food court for people who hate malls. Honestly, the early days were electric. You had The Walrus & The Pearl shucking oysters in the middle of a desert. You had DCM Burger Bar serving up grass-fed patties.
The architecture did a lot of the heavy lifting. The mezzanine level felt like a secret club where you could peer down at the hipsters and professionals below. Huge roll-up garage doors blurred the line between the sidewalk and the bar. It felt like Phoenix had finally "arrived" in the way Seattle or Denver had years prior. But behind the scenes, the math was getting complicated.
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Why the Food Hall Model is a Nightmare to Manage
You’ve gotta realize that running a food hall isn't like running a restaurant. It’s like being a landlord, a marketing agency, and a janitorial service all at once.
- Vendor Churn: If one stall fails, it leaves a "toothless" gap in the smile of the market.
- Variable Hours: Nothing kills a food hall faster than three stalls being closed on a Tuesday while the other four are open. It feels abandoned.
- The Overhead: Cooling a 1920s warehouse in a 115-degree Phoenix summer? The air conditioning bills alone were enough to make a CPA weep.
The Identity Crisis of DeSoto Central Market Phoenix
One of the biggest gripes locals had—and I remember this vividly—was that DeSoto never quite figured out what it wanted to be. Was it a grocery store? For a while, they had a small "market" section with produce and dry goods. But nobody goes to a "cool" food hall to buy a single onion and a box of pasta. It felt like an afterthought.
Then there was the "Central" part of the name. Being on the light rail was supposed to be a golden ticket. In reality, it made the space a target for a lot of foot traffic that wasn't necessarily there to spend $16 on a cocktail and a small plate of artisan tacos. Balancing a "public square" vibe with the need to pay exorbitant downtown rents is a tightrope walk that many developers fall off of.
The competition caught up fast. While DeSoto was trying to manage internal politics between different chefs, other spots like The Churchill opened nearby using shipping containers. Why does that matter? Because shipping containers are cheap. They’re easy to cool. They have a lower barrier to entry for vendors. DeSoto was a premium, high-ceilinged, historic beast that required constant feeding.
The Actual Timeline of the End
By 2018, the writing was on the wall. The "Market" part of the name had mostly been dropped in spirit. Big-name chefs started pulling their concepts out. There were whispers about management issues and disagreements over the direction of the space.
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In a move that surprised some but seemed inevitable to others, the market officially shuttered its doors in mid-2018. It wasn't because people stopped eating downtown. In fact, downtown Phoenix was exploding at that exact moment. It was a failure of the specific ecosystem within those four walls.
What’s There Now? (The Ghost of Desoto)
If you’re looking for the DeSoto Central Market Phoenix experience today, you’re out of luck, but the building isn't empty. It transitioned into a The Pemberton-esque sprawl for a bit before Lustre Rooftop Bar's parent companies and other corporate entities started eyeing the space.
Eventually, it became The Duce's neighbor in spirit, but more recently, it has functioned as a massive event space and has been subdivided. The most notable tenant to take over the spirit of the space was Choncho’s, and later, segments were used for different pop-ups. But that "community hub" feeling? It moved down the street.
Honestly, the failure of DeSoto paved the way for better models. It proved that you can't just put good food in a pretty building and hope for the best. You need a cohesive brand.
Lessons from the Rise and Fall
What can we actually learn from this? If you're a developer or just a fan of urban design, the DeSoto saga is a warning.
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First, Scale matters. 8,000 square feet is a "no man's land" in real estate—too big for one restaurant to feel intimate, but almost too small to have the 15-20 vendors required to make a food hall a true destination.
Second, Parking is the Phoenix curse. Even with the light rail, people in this city are glued to their cars. DeSoto had a tiny lot. If you couldn't find a spot within a block, you just kept driving to a strip mall in Midtown.
Third, Consistency is king. You can't have a rotating door of vendors and expect people to form a "habit" of going there. People want "their" spot. When "their" spot disappears every six months, they stop coming.
How to Experience Historic Roosevelt Row Today
Even though DeSoto is gone, the neighborhood it helped ignite is still there. If you're heading to the area to see the building, here is the best way to spend your time without the market:
- Park at a Meter on 1st Ave: Don't even try the lots right on Central. Save yourself the $20 "event pricing" headache.
- Visit the Building: You can still admire the 1928 Chrysler dealership architecture from the outside. Look at the masonry and the original window frames. It's some of the best preserved commercial history in the city.
- Walk to The Churchill: Just a few blocks away, this is the spiritual successor to DeSoto. It’s outdoors (mostly), which solves the AC problem, and the vendor mix is much more stable.
- Hit Arizona Wilderness: If you wanted the "craft beer and community" vibe of DeSoto, this is where it migrated. It's loud, it's crowded, and it's quintessentially Phoenix.
The story of DeSoto Central Market Phoenix isn't a tragedy. It’s just a chapter. It was the "proof of concept" that Roosevelt Row could handle big-budget projects. It failed so that others could figure out how to fly.
If you're looking for the next big thing in the Valley, keep your eyes on the warehouse district south of downtown. Developers are trying the same "adaptive reuse" tricks there, hopefully with a better understanding of the overhead costs this time. Check out the current tenant list for the building before you head down, as the space is frequently used for private corporate events and ticketed "immersive" experiences these days rather than a walk-in lunch spot.