Ever so infrequently, I like to go through the photo files, only to be reminded of the photos taken that never make it past the rigorous standards set forth here at the Chicken. For whatever reason, I was compelled enough to take the shot, but did nothing with it afterward. I give to you, the junk drawer of photos.
And maybe it is because I noticed my dad doing it when I was growing up and I thought everything he did was done to perfection, but I recall my dad, especially when on the telephone, referring to his other guy friends as "Babe."
My dad wasn't much of a phone talker, but when he did get on the mic, he would be on it for hours, and you would hear all sort of crazy laughter emanating from the dining room, where he was having the conversation. It wasn't until I was older that I realized what those conversations were about. They were about my dad usually getting someone a job in trades, loaning someone money, or making plans with someone to haul those shit-kid sons of his over to a buddy's house to help them build a deck or some goddamn thing. This is, what I learned, Saturdays are for.
Usually, these phone conversations would wrap up with my dad calling someone "Kid" or "Babe," depending on with whom he was speaking. "Kid" was obviously (to me) someone his junior; "Babe" was reserved for peers. And it's not like the entire conversation was peppered with these monikers. They would typically be employed at the conversation's end. I can't tell you how many times I heard "Alright, good talking to you, Babe."
I think I am going to bring its usage back.
.
Can you, or more importantly, should you, eulogize a bar? Considering the time, money, and effort some people put in to drinking at their favorite establishment, I would have to say "yes."
And so it is with one of our favorite Detroit ghetto bars that recently poured its last bottle of beer and concocted its swan song cocktail, replete with the flat, bottom-of-the-2-liter cola mixer. Rooster and I began frequenting this place last year, after being told that a woman I know owned half of it, along with her brother, who held residence in the apartment above the bar. That conversation went something like this:
Person 1: Did you know So and So owns a bar in Detroit?
Me: Really? Where?
Person 1: It is some nondescript place. Doesn't even have a sign. Totally in this really shitty neighborhood. Trust me, you're not going to want to go anywhere near this place.
Me, on the phone to So and So: So, where is this bar of yours?
It really turned out to be a Valhalla of sorts for me and my friend. You have to knock to get in. They lock the door behind you. It's that kind of place. And while unorthodox for many, nothing feels more secure -- aside from the gentle bliss of a bosom -- than being locked in a bar. It is akin to being checked for weapons before entering a bar. You have a pretty good idea that nobody else in there is strapped.
It was like someone's living room in this gin mill, with a 'fridge behind the bar, cereal boxes on top of that, leftovers on the counter behind the bar, people's personal affects everywhere, and a general surreality I have encountered nowhere else. The other owner, So and So's brother, lived upstairs and was the bar's caretaker, after brother and sister's parents passed away some years back. It was in the middle of a residential area of Southwest Detroit, and on nights we drank in there, we drank with locals, people who had been coming to that bar for years, if not decades. You got a guy making drug deals on his phone at the end of the bar, another guy rolling up a carton's worth of cigarettes in the corner, and a steady stream of people heading into the ladies' room, pretty much every 15 minutes.
It was perfect for us, a bar in a neighborhood very few outside of that geographic area would know. We had become familiar faces, despite the element of surprise. Two guys like us just don't walk into a bar like that for a drink. They have a set of regulars. Nobody would know it was a bar if they were passing it for the first time. I remember our first night there. We pounded on the door before someone cracked it open.
"Who are you?" the guy asked.
"Patrons," the Rooster replied. And in we went.
There were no windows on the main level and the lighting was dim. You would hear a howl from the occasional grey-hair in a motorcycle jacket or catch a waft of cologne from the Sean Jean-wearing, chinstrap-beard-sporting Hispanic dudes who had the look in their eye that you just don't see in suburban white kids rocking that same look in, say, Hazel Park. You know that look? Ever see that look in someone? The one that provides all indications that this person is civil, to a point, but you don't want to be in the custom of riling this cat up, because he will wreck your shit. And by "your shit," I mean your jaw and ribs. They are there for the same reason we were there -- to enjoy refreshing adult beverages, while possibly viewing a professional sporting event on the TV set, all the while partaking in an unspoken camaraderie.
The wall behind the bar carried an explosion of Red Wings items, from famed photos and newspaper articles, to plaques, pucks, the whole thing, all of them disarranged in a mismash of presentation. The owner's girlfriend's daughter, herself a mom at age 19 and no stranger to the graft game, would come down from the apartment upstairs, walk behind the bar, open the 'fridge, pull out a plate of baked beans haphazardly covered in plastic wrap, reheat them up in the microwave, and then sit down a few stools from us and enjoy her snack, all the while disregarding posture or cognizence that those beans fucking stink. She would finish and go stand behind the bar.
"Pretend like I'm making change for you," she said to the Rooster. Shit like that.
Regrettably for the family, So and So's brother passed away due to heart complications. So and So has had enough with the building and the problems in the neighborhood. She lives outside of the city limits with her husband and children. The brother really kept the bar going. Without him, there's really no one else to run things. So, it sits on the corner in Southwest. It might as well have a sign on it that says "Come burn me down," because that is probably what will happen eventually.
It could be ours for about 5k. An entire building. It would be like a boys club or a sort of ghetto sandbox for us, but now is not the time. Maybe in another 10 years, when dropping that kind of change is plausible.
In the meantime, I say later days to our little oasis, our hideout where no one we know (or looked like us) would ever find us, our place in obscurity in this part of town we have come to enjoy. Good-bye to our hipster-free find, a place that would roll up and smoke the skinny jean-wearing, tousled-hair pussy set. Thanks for having us.
Most birds fly south for the winter. Many humans do as well, and I’ve never really been that type. When it gets arctic-esque in the Midwest in January, flying to Florida or Cali is a good idea, but one I have never felt a need to embrace. So, when two very close friends of ours became engaged last year, informing us that theirs would be a destination wedding in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico at the end of January, I thought -- nice. I’m going to be one of those guys; a guy who leaves frosty Michigan in the middle of winter to upgrade by about 70 degrees.
Excitement built for months and was reduced to weeks amid constant checks of the weather, planning, and having long conversations about what this wedding means to our good friends, and how very happy we are for them. They could have elected to wed in Green Bay in January and we would have hopped a plane to join them in Packer Country. But, lets all just agree that sunny and warm Mexico was a fine choice. We basically left this view out the plane window,
For this,
The trip itself, including and especially the wedding ceremony and reception, was sublime, despite getting off to a potentially rocky start. Flight plans called for us to leave our house at about 6 in the morning Thursday. We got checked in, boarded the plane and were ready to go when the pilot announced a delay in departure due to some mechanical issue, something involving the shock absorbers-like component to the unit. An hour later they told us the flight was cancelled and before we knew it we were de-boarding. We get re-routed on a flight that was scheduled to leave several hours later and, at 9:30 in the morning with several hours to kill and with the groom’s sister in tow – we paid a visit to the airport bar.
Drinking like this, at odd hours and in unfamiliar quantities, became a hallmark of this trip. Champagne at breakfast? Don’t mind if we do! Hey, what’s that? A strawberry margarita at 11:00 a.m. while splashing around in the pool? We’ll take two!
We finally got settled in to our gorgeous hotel about 9 at night. We changed into our warm weather clothes and migrated right to the hotel bar for celebratory drinks. I wasted no time getting familiar with ESPN Deportes and some swoon-inducing, I’m-so-dying-for-Spring-Training-to-start Winter League highlights. It was Jan. 31 and I was watching the day's baseball highlights. In Spanish. It was a lovely start to a glorious five days.
We checked in to a nice room, with a huge, comfortable bed, and a lush garden view. We saved a shitload of money by foregoing the ocean view, and had little regrets in doing that.
Friday morning we experienced our finest indulgence of the trip. We slept in, hit the fully loaded breakfast buffet and then headed here for out-of-this-world massages.
While we relaxed on the massage tables side by side, we were flanked by the ocean, and the only sound was the water rushing the shore. Our masseuses worked out the kinks and tension holding captive our winterized bodies and soon we felt as if we too could lap up on the shore. We came away refreshed and relaxed and ready to hit the pool bar. Unfortch, we have no shots of that, because we are not in the habit of bringing a camera in the pool with us.
We met up with Nicki and Jeff, and her close friend/bridesmaid Lissa and her boyfriend Eric. The latter would be a couple of people we would come to hang out with on this vacation. After some drinks, literally, in the pool, we retired to our cool, air-conditioned room for a sound nap under the weight of the gorgeous, thick feather down comforter and fluffy pillows. For dinner that night, we climbed in a rickety cab and soaked up the local scenery while our cabbie navigated the narrow roads that took us up the side of the Sierra Madre Mountains, into historical Old Puerto Vallarta.
We enjoyed dinner Friday night at Vista Grill, which, as its name implies, provides stunning views of the city and ocean.
Sadly, the shots I took of the food here do not do the meal much justice. We started with the espresso and chocolate braised short ribs with a vanilla bean potato puree.
Kerry had the herb-marinated tuna, artichoke, eggplant and prosciutto, potato leek rillet and a rosemary thyme sauce. While I’ve never been one to willingly consume raw fish, I took a bite of Kerry’s dinner and for the first time enjoyed the wonder of sushi-grade tuna seared to perfection. It was absolutely fantastic.
I enjoyed the salmon, encrusted in a trio of red peppers, tamarind essence, and a napolean of sausage, roasted tomato, and eggplant.
The food was scrumptious, and was complemented by the lovely sunset we enjoyed from our perch high above the city:
Our waiter was friendly and helpful, and advised us to head to a part of town where we could grab some drinks, a populated boardwalk area called the Malecon, in the shadow of the historic Guadalupe Church.
After a bottle of wine with dinner and several drinks before that, we ended up at this Cuban place called La Bodeguito del Medio. This spot jumped with a phenomenal Cuban band setup and plenty of drinks. Patrons were steppin’ all over the place.
The band rocked
And this woman had some amazing pipes.
Kerry and I enjoyed several rounds of these
And it appeared as if the house specialty was the Cuban classic, the Mojito. Here is a batch in the early prep stage.
We danced a little. Well, actually, Kerry tried to show to me a few salsa moves and after some resistance, I complied. We were drunk and having a great time thousands of miles from home. Why not step to the Latin grooves?
We traversed the boardwalk, stopping in and out of assorted bars, before happening upon what would be the crown jewel of bars on this night, Jarzon Criolla. Upon entering this tiny dive (about the size of our kitchen) we noticed this,
which is always a good sign. We sat at the bar and greeted 5 guys occupying the rest of the bar stools. There was nobody else in this place. We weren’t in there 20 seconds before I drunkenly notice an interesting dynamic. These guys all looked to be about 25 years old and were drinking from large-sized Styrofoam cups. We later learned, interestingly enough, that they were drinking 40s of Corona that the bartender poured for them into those cups. One cat was wearing an Agnostic Front sweatshirt; another a NOFX T-shirt. An iPod was connected to the shelf stereo system behind the bar. Kerry was stunned, quite happily, to realize that they were listening to The Smiths. This was a whopping anomaly to the world we just left, which offered such watering holes as the Hard Rock or Señor Frog’s and other places of such banal repute, swarming with simps wearing pleated white shorts and generic tourist tees. Our fellow patrons were, well, they were hanging out, listening to The Smiths (and later, The Clash), seemingly in another world but really merely feet from the scene outside.
We had a conversation. I had not brushed up on my Spanish since the required classes in high school, and after I made eye contact with the hipsters, I gesture to the stereo, in a show of clumsy brotherhood.
“The Smiths,” I say, nodding. I give to them the thumbs up. They return the gesture. I start talking to one of them, trying to make conversation. They look like they could be in a local band, so I try to take that route.
Me: “Uh, trabajo – uh, trabajo en, uh, en la musica? Tu trabajo en la musica?”
Him: “I speak English, man.”
Bingo!
That made for a much more fun evening, as we launched into a conversation of varied topics.
We hung out with these guys for about 3 or 4 rounds of drinks, talking about music and what they like (The Smiths), where they live (nearby), what they do for fun (drink), and so forth, It always seemed to come back to music.
Them: “Joy Division?”
Me and Kerry: “Fuck yeah, Joy Division!” We raise our bottles, they raise their Styrofoam.
Them: “Depeche Mode?”
Us: “Fuck yeah, Depeche Mode!” Thumbs up for everyone. Music is an international language.
I don’t remember much of the conversation after that point. They said they jam in a band, but they aren’t very good. One guy is a math teacher and apparently math teacher wages in Mexico are so paltry, dude works a second job, just to support his math job, if that makes sense. We yukked it up for hours with these guys.
What a great night. We unsuccessfully tried to get back there a second time to meet up with them again. I left my e-mail address with the bartender, but it’s doubtful I will hear from them. I am hoping to send them a bunch of home-grown Detroit rock CDs, but that seems unlikely. We really liked those guys, they don’t know it, but hanging out with them is a favorite memory of ours from our trip.
We got up the next day, had breakfast, swam in the pool, napped and then – with great, happy anticipation, got ready for the wedding. The wedding was arguably one of the best we have ever attended. And yes, probably because of the locale, but more so because we love Jeff and Nicki dearly and they are certainly two people who without a doubt are perfect for each other.
The setup was stunning, and Mother Nature took care of the rest of the details with 75-degree temps, soothing zephyrs and that whole sound-of-the-ocean-crashing-around-you thing.
As Nicki and her proud father started to cross the beach and head down the aisle created by simple bamboo runners, a small crowd of folks hanging out poolside gathered, watching Nicki as she held on to her father on her way to meet her groom.
And then our collective breath was taken away when the bride came into view,
Nicki was a vision. She wore an amazing gown that was elegant and classic and spoke to her fabulous, inimitable personal style. The ceremony was stirring and deep. On our minds was our dear departed friend Wendy, who some years earlier had also experienced this magical spot when she said her loving “I Dos” to her now widower, our friend Bruno.
Wendy certainly felt present, as we witnessed her little sister commit to the most perfect man for her. It was, to say the least, bittersweet. Kerry shed more than her fair share of tears while trying to balance her emotions during this intense, intimate moment we were privileged to witness.
A seemingly unreal, perfect punctuation to the gloriousness of this occasion was the Mariachi band that had quietly lined up behind us during the ceremony. As Jeff escorted his new bride back down the aisle, he raised his arm in jubilant celebration,
And then the band took its cue and began to play a jaunty Mariachi ditty.
And then it was time to celebrate. The reception area was a couple hundred feet away from the ceremony and as the couple walked off the beach, the crowd that had gathered by the pool broke into happy, anonymous applause, a stirring reminder of the inspiration we all felt by watching these two amazing people declare their love.
Our table and reception area, naturally, left no detail undone.
The mariachi band played. This guy was the shit.
Memories of Wendy you just couldn’t avoid, nor would we want to. The mother of the bride, Nancy, took some time for a genuine moment with Kerry, instinctively providing reassurance and support. I was moved to take this photo of the two, bonding over the profound love for Nicki and Jeff that they experienced that day, soothing their broken hearts.
Back when I was single and living alone, every Thanksgiving, about a week before, Nicki would call me and say “My mom wants to invite you over for dinner,” she would say. And I would tell her “I’m good, I have plans,” or “I’m going up to my dad’s, but thanks,” and she would say “Nancy wants to make sure you’re not sitting around by yourself Thursday.” And she would do this every year until I married. In a word, Nancy’s the best.
Jeff and Nicki entertained us with their first dance as husband and wife
Naturally, there were fireworks. Because, really, what ocean-side beach wedding would be complete without such a touch?
Kerry and I skipped dessert; she in an effort to redirect her calorie consumption to the fresh mango margaritas
And I ended up with my own version of the meal’s denouement, (more) Crown Royal and my pick of Cubans.
The night was perfectly sublime, down to the last detail. We have never been big fans of wedding videographers, not even getting one for our own big day, but we will most certainly order up a copy of this video and it will get its fair share of play to help us get through the gloomy days of winter.
Yes indeed, a most profound experience that wedding was.
We awoke Sunday for a similar agenda of the days previous, in the way of lounging in the shade of a palm tree, reading, napping, and swimming – and of course spending time at the swim-up bar. Before that, we attended the family brunch, which was very generous and a wonderful way to extend the happy glow from the previous night.
The highlight? Anyone who knows Nicki knows she is terrified of clowns. So, who comes by our table? Well, a clown, of course. He was there for some birthday party nearby, but thought he would make the rounds and share the joy.
Nicki couldn’t hide her horror and disdain for the fellow, who only spoke Spanish and so did not understand her polite suggestions that he please leave her the fuck alone.
I was definitely interested in catching the Super Bowl somewhere, especially since we saw this sign on Friday night.
Lissa hooked it all up, organized a small-group bar trip, found a decent place and off we went. I wasn’t rooting for either team, except maybe Arizona a little bit in honor of my dear friends Bert and Jodie who live there, but that would change toward the end of the game, when Pittsburgh got that fucking safety. Lissa had one, $100 square on the game, and she excitedly announced to the table that if the Steelers scored in the last 3 minutes, she would win $4,000 from the office pool. Well, Santonio Holmes makes the catch of a lifetime and the rest was history. Her reaction, and Kerry’s photographic timing, was priceless.
She graciously and very generously picked up our tab. It was arguably one of the most memorable Super Bowls ever, and we were happy as hell for her. She’s a fun and genuine person and her boyfriend was a riot. Being a bridesmaid can be a lot of work, so I was glad to see her get a little something extra out of it.
We were back to our room by midnight and crashed out. Monday would be our last full day in Puerto Vallarta. While I wanted to venture out of the area, I was leery about driving around unfamiliar terrain, so we just stayed tight.
Monday was a repeat of the days before it, lounging poolside in 80-degree temps while Detroit iced up at 10 degrees. We walked around town quite a bit. I noticed a lot of VW Beetles, the originals, all over the city. Some of them were noticeably well-appointed.
Later that day, we ventured back to Old Puerto Vallarta to find a taco stand a bartender had told us about. That is typically our MO when traveling. We will generally ply bartenders and waitresses, when in a different city, about where they like to eat and drink. These spots usually turn out to be the best suggestions. And so it was when this American expat bartender, living in PV for the last 10 years via San Francisco and Boston, said one of his favorite places to eat was in the Malecon district, an unassuming taco hut with no sign and no name. He gave to us explicit directions and lo, there over the bridge and across from the OXXO store we happened upon unrivaled greatness wrapped in a tortilla.
We took it easy on the booze Monday night, enjoying another walk through Old PV. I tried to find the dive bar guys with no luck, and we headed in kind of early.
The next morning we prepared for our 4 p.m. flight. We took a stroll along the beach in the morning and spotted a whale about a mile off shore. This was a highlight of the trip for Kerry, who really wanted to see a whale, having never seen one before. We also found some interesting Mexican graffiti along the beach walk
Breakfast in the Malecon proved to better – and cheaper – than the resort buffet we’d been eating every day for $20 a pop. I had the breakfast burrito; Kerry had eggs
We were surprised at our readiness to head home. It was a wonderful vacation, which is precisely the word to use. Our M.O. was sitting on our asses most of the time, getting drunk, napping, eating, otherwise engaging in a state of leisure that, if we’re lucky, we get to experience maybe once a year. Vacation. By the time we checked out we were ready to get back home, to our own bed, our dearly missed dog, and sadly, the weather.
We saw the photos from the couple’s honeymoon and where they stayed, which was here. We plan on going back there next time. It is detached and tranquil, and I believe will provide us an opportunity to experience this beautiful country and its wonderful people in a way that doesn’t come with staying in the more popular vacation areas.
We felt significant being a part of Jeff and Nicki’s wedding, and we consider ourselves grateful to be such good friends with them.
We love you, Nicki and Jeff, and will cherish our memories of your wedding and this trip for our lifetime.
From the venerable Christopher Wallace.
"Birthdays were the worst days/now we sip champagne when we thirst-ay."
What job would you never want to have to do?
In this order:
Mop guy at the peep booths.
Peep guy at the mop booths.
Booth guy at the peep mops.
