Steve’s Place has a postapocalyptic feel, as if burnt out and only marginally re-established. Light is random and murky. High ceilings, deep booths and a bar hued in colors of ’70s shag carpet; bottle green and blue. Liquor cabinets creak when opened. The back room is a lovely wreck, as if it had been given a vigorous spin and turned upside down. It suggests the isolation of a bar built on blue-collar money that has seen generations of drinkers and raconteurs, seasons of punk rockers and street buskers pass through. It’s a Bukowskian dream, an overlooked jewel in downtown Detroit. It could be the last bar on the last block on the last day at last call.



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