I have a rather significant birthday on the horizon – as do other “Class of ‘87” grads. When the girls who wrote “LYLAS” (Love Ya Like A Sister) in curlicues in the back of my yearbook rallied for a celebratory weekend, I was all in. That is, until Detroit was selected as the destination. Seriously?
While I grew up in the “313,” it was merely in a bordertown to Detroit proper. From our segregated suburb of Dearborn, our families occasionally made forays into the shell of a once great city. En route, our parents bored us with tales of having to get dressed up to go shopping or to a movie downtown when they were our age. This was hard to believe as the only activity we saw on the streets was steam billowing up from a surprisingly large number of manhole covers. Our procession down Michigan Avenue took us through vacant streets lined with boarded up shop after boarded up shop. Somehow the only businesses that still looked open sold a bewildering assortment of brightly colored wigs. Or liquor.
Us kids were confused how Detroit had its own traffic rules — at red lights our wood-sided station wagon only paused for a moment and then sped on. Once in the vicinity of a theater, things got a bit more relaxed. That said, despite a plentitude of on-street parking, my father queued to pay top dollar to park in the theater’s attached garage. Even then, my mother hesitated to exit our vehicle until a herd of other suburbanites appeared. Together, our nervous bunch journeyed to safety past the gilded doors.
I am not unaware how wimpy this all sounds. One might be surprised that such a child could in her 20’s travel alone in Europe for a year. Many with whom I struck up a conversation expressed their concern and even condemnation over my solo treks. That is, until I mentioned that I was from Detroit. Without fail, my conversant would visibly exhale and say, “That’s alright then.” While bartending in London, I proudly wore a pink t-shirt sent as an Easter gift from my mother that said, “Detroit, Where the Weak are Killed and Eaten. “ I was a fake, but it saved me a whole lot of hassle.
Upon my return, friends and I ventured semi-regularly into the city to visit such hot spots as The Post Bar or The Old Shillelagh and as many Red Wings games at The Joe as possible. While we had a good time, the vibe on the pavement outside these venues was at best, daring, and at worst, danger.
Shortly after I entered my 30’s and married, I relocated to the South for nearly nine years. When my new family returned to Michigan, it was to the west coast. Another nine years later, my Dearborn High friends insisted that “Detroit is amazing now” and must be our celebratory-turning-50-destination. While skeptical, I did note that it had been two decades since I’d been there. I might want to see how Detroit had fared in my absence.
My high school friend trip was slated for June. Much to my surprise, in May, I found myself in a minivan with my bookclub besties also en route to Detroit. These lovely ladies set out to spoil their elder stateswoman in a city I no longer knew. Fate certainly wanted me in Detroit for the twilight days of my 40’s.
Our Honda Pilot pulled into the valet at the beautiful Whitney mansion. This 1894 rose granite home was built by the wealthiest man in Detroit, lumber baron David Whitney Jr. I was astonished at the activity. Polished women in floral topped hats moved in procession up stone steps to enter the 22,000 square foot estate. Following them inside, we discovered multiple bridal showers and other festive occasions happening concurrently in the various alcoves off the grand hall. Our crew headed up an opulent carved stairway to await our champagne ghost tour.
Our guide was an eloquent gentleman with a fascinating background including being a former NASA engineer. His pride was palpable – not only in the mansion’s famous embellishments (such as lighting personally installed by Thomas Edison, inlays of wood from around the globe and a massive Tiffany window), but in Detroit itself. This dignified personal ownership of a city written off by most of the world was a wonder. But he was by no means the only one who felt this way. The server at our subsequent Whitney afternoon tea held her head high when answering our questions about the area. Once at our hotel, the petite desk clerk did not hesitate to scrawl a walking path to Greektown (and even looked perplexed at my question as to whether it was “safe”). En route, crowds confidently navigated streets in all directions, some even on the new rental scooters strewn about town. The owners of the cars cruising the main drag in Greektown displayed a self-assurance that was not conceit or bravado but a comfort in one’s surroundings.
Where am I? I asked myself more than once. I couldn’t get over my amazement at the activity on the streets. At the optimism all around. At the excitement to be exactly where one was.
The rest of our short visit reinforced this feeling. Our group walked to the Detroit Music Hall to see Jersey Boys. The city whose vibe one had been of neglect, survival and defense was now one of life and expectation. I’d had a taste of the new (to me) Detroit and couldn’t wait to return with my high school friends to experience even more.
A mere month later, I again found myself bounding eastward on I-96. Having survived a halting rush hour merger onto I-696, I pulled off Woodward Avenue into a leafy oasis in Royal Oak. A generous friend had vacated his brick craftsman home for our reunion. It was like being gifted a bed and breakfast for the weekend, including all of the fascinating nooks and crannies and unique antiques.
One by one, a former gymnast, swimmer, field hockey player, Lady Footlocker salesperson and lifeguard took her place on a cozy front porch cushion. Our Uber soon arrived to whisk us off to the most hospitable restaurant I have ever visited.
That morning, I had left a message begging for an extra spot at our 50 celebratory table. I received a return call from a charming woman who wanted to clarify that we ALL were turning 50. She excitedly relayed that she and her friends were also gathering to celebrate their “half-90” birthdays. She certainly could make room for one more.
When we entered The Grey Ghost, a warm welcome awaited. My phone mate met us and led us to the best table in the place. In only a moment, one of the owners presented us with both a bottle of champagne and the “best server in the house.” What followed was a tantalizing array of samosas, lamb chops with spring peas and gnocchi and the best sea scallops I have ever tasted. We refreshed ourselves with creative cocktail concoctions such as the “No Good Reason” (with rum, watermelon, aquavit, lime and soy of all things) because, after all, the original grey Ghost was a prohibition rum runner. Ignoring our group claim of no further room in our happy bellies, the waiter appeared with a generous slice of German chocolate cake topped with a self-relighting candle, so we could all have a turn making a wish. A truly memorable evening.
The next day began with brunch at the Apparatus Room, housed in the former Detroit Fire Fighters Headquarters and current Foundation Hotel. The restaurant, named after its function to store fire engines, glowed in the sunlight streaming through windows set in frames of arched fire station garage doors. A four-piece female jazz band filled the cavernous space with discordant melodies. Our group was happy to forgo conversation whilst savoring duck and sweet potato hash and playing the dominos conveniently scattered nearby. The atmosphere was charged and not just by the chandelier dripping its handcrafted glass globes from the two-story high ceiling.
Onwards to Woodward Avenue! We strolled towards the thoroughfare and made a stop that no visitor to Detroit should miss – the Guardian Building. Imagine an Art Deco cathedral decorated in a fusion of Aztec and Native American designs. This skyscraper is a National Historic Landmark and a visual feast well worth a few dazzling moments.
Upon exiting the high-rise, we came upon Woodward and crossed to stroll the median. Huge free-standing swings beckoned us to rest for a moment from our explorations. With the Detroit River behind us, we headed inland through a procession of welcoming tables and benches upon which to loiter on our journey.
Campus Martius lay ahead. This once island in an adrenaline inducing intersection now is reconfigured into a relaxing gathering place complete with a sandy beach (I’m not kidding), a spurting fountain, gardens and a shipping container restaurant. Most fun of all is the marker noting the city’s Point of Origin from which the mile roads begin.
After lounging in beach chairs soaking up our vitamin D, we made a brief foray into the Roasting Plant across the way to revitalize ourselves with an infusion of fresh artisan coffees for my cohorts and a Matcha Tea Latte for me. The coffee beans are vacuum suctioned from tubes in the center of the shop to the baristas for brewing. Even for one who cannot stand the taste of coffee (somehow the flavor hits a wrong nerve on my unfortunate taste buds), the establishment is well worth a stop for this novelty alone.
Michigan’s long awaited summer couldn’t have chosen a better day to arrive. Our contingent meandered towards the Shinola Hotel, easing into and out of a variety of unique shops. Behind the hotel, an alleyway hosts its own boutiques, including one with swings to sit upon while trying on lipstick. While I did not find a shade to my liking, I was happy to have maintained my seat (another patron did not) and enjoyed giving some unusual shades a try.
Our charmed walking (!) tour of Detroit’s energized downtown continued to the foyer of the Element Hotel in the newly restored Metropolitan Building. We joined the queue awaiting passage to the city’s current hot spot – the Monarch Club. After but a brief wait, we herded into an elevator and whisked to the penthouse and its rooftop bar wonder.
The day was too beautiful to spend in one of the many cushy leather seats in the interior bar. We headed to the terraces and the open air panoramic view of the city they offered. Not to be deterred by a lack of open tables, my comrades and I relocated a few stone stool/cocktail tables to a vacant corner. Immediately, men rose from nearby, proffering extra chairs to complete our ad hoc rooftop oasis. A waitress with short green hair and huge blue glasses swung onto a seat and gave us her best suggestions. Who could resist a refreshing beverage that tasted like springtime?
Basking in the sun, we took in the view of Comerica Park and Woodward Avenue from on high. We didn’t mind a bit that it took over half an hour for our drinks to arrive. Sipping our “Bad Entropy” cocktails atop the tallest public bar in the city, we truly felt like we were on top of the world, if in reality only on top of Detroit. We said a small prayer of thanks to the developers who saved from destruction this grand old Neo-gothic building that once housed the city’s watchmakers and jewelers and had been shuttered for almost 40 years.
One of us ventured a look at her watch and determined that it just might be early enough to get seated at the Wright and Company restaurant next door. This establishment did not accept reservations, which in our state of unplanned wandering was to our advantage. We descended one elevator, walked outside, took a few steps, entered a glass door and ascended another.
Passing under a crystal chandelier, we traipsed down a dim corridor to find a smiling hostess who happily informed us that the wait would be a mere 30 minutes. Success! There was just enough time to explore a shop nearby. Upon our return to the former concert ballroom, we were escorted immediately to our table. Enormous picture windows overlooking the activity on Woodward Avenue provided our view.
Our troop endeavored to order a selection of delights to share tapas-style around the table. Although all delectable, the undisputed champion was the dish of roasted beets in a “feta cheese mousse, aged balsamic and candied walnuts.”
We polished off a Trio of Cookies and took our leave. The leader of our crew had noted earlier that a libation at the Shinola Hotel was on her Detroit bucket list. Our target acquired, we were off.
Despite finding seating immediately in the spacious Shinola San Morello bar, a lack of service lead to a dampening of our group enthusiasm. Two of us left to use the ladies room and stumbled upon a darkened doorway marked with only two eyes. We had found the Evening Bar.
Giddy with our discovery of a hidden upscale speakeasy, we gathered our crew and exited the hotel to enter it properly by the unmarked door in the back alley.
A charming maitre’d immediately greeted us. His concern at seating a party of four was immediately evident. Upon explaining the importance of celebrating our communal half-century, a solution of two stations for two was found in the dim hidaway. Cocktails topped with orchids proved to be the nightcap of the evening.
Our party took a final stroll down The Belt – an alleyway in the former garment district transformed by vibrant murals to become a pedestrian beacon. The place was lively with music and pop-up bars. We enjoyed our passage through and emerged to meet our Uber waiting just beyond.
It’s been a long time since Detroiters boasted that it was the “Murder Capitol of the World” or begged visitors to “Say Nice Things about Detroit.” That said, in a city larger than Boston, Manhattan and San Francisco combined, there is a lot of work to do to revive the Motor City beyond its downtown. Yet, given the prevalent optimism and entrepreneurship permeating the very Detroit air, at least as far as the downtown goes, I can only agree with my Class of ‘87 BFF’s, “Detroit is amazing now!”
