Chowhound is a weekly column about what’s trending in Detroit food culture. Tips: [email protected].
I’ve no meaty topic to devote an entire column to this week. Nibble on these tidbits instead:
Asking for a friend: My lifelong buddy Bret and I met in kindergarten. We know each other well at this point. Food-wise, there’s nothing this guy loves more than fried clams. Having heard good things about Scotty Simpson’s frittered fare, I called to inquire. No clams. And nothing jumped out at me while fishing for them online. Now, I haven’t a clue as to where I might go to cross two things off my to-do list with one stroke: review some humble little hang that does fried fish well — among other things — while taking a best friend along for a much-needed fried clams fix. So, I’m open to suggestions on this one, Metro Times readers, and among you, any restaurateurs proud enough of their deep fryer delectables to invite me in. I’d have to take you up on that invitation anonymously, of course, pay my own way, and call things as I see them. Still, who’s to say you won’t score a pair of bonus points for having the balls to request some review scrutiny? Either way, from whoever chimes in, I’d appreciate a hand with my clam-digging here. You’d be doing a friend of mine a favor.
Wing nuts: For our next Whipping Post installment, consider this tag-team effort from two Google reviewers flying off the handle with Belleville’s Rusted Crow over a perceived slight from a chicken wing order they insisted came up short in more ways than one.
From Ann Cates, a week ago: “Poor service. Paid for 20 wings on a carry out and got only 18. Owner refused to speak with this customer on the phone, waitress said he said return to the store in middle of the night to replace two wings, because the fry cook said there was 20. How rude! Last order from this pathetic restaurant. Some unscrupulous staff was obviously playing in my food and the owner was too obtuse to care.”
Piling on, plaintive crony, Atum Re, added sequentially in a separate review: “Not recommended! Fry cook shorted my chicken wings on a to go order. Owner said the cook was correct, but I could come back to the restaurant for the missing wings. That’s how they treat black customers. No sorry. No replacement. No going back.”
Where do I begin here? In conversation with Crow’s kitchen management, for starters, I was told these customers called to place an order for two dozen wings, at which point staff advised that Crow sells wings in portions of 10 or 20 instead, which could account for the four-wing discrepancy these customers perceived in the order they received. Even so, from there, Cates and Re strafed Crow’s Google reviews with several accusations well beyond the pale of reasonable complaint. Cates accusing the kitchen staff of “unscrupulous” (presumably pilfering) handling of her food is patently presumptuous. Both she and Re’s reference to kitchen staff as fry cooks reeks of pejorative, and playing the race card over this issue is sad, plain and simple.
For the record and upon further inspection, the rest of Cates’ and Re’s posting histories reflect a long list of one-star rants. In her three other contributions to online posterity, Re rails against a nail salon she feels failed to treat an ingrown toenail of hers, a car dealership who didn’t fix a repair she paid for, and a public storage facility she’d rented space from. Meanwhile, Cates has been busy blowing up Belleville’s Bayou Grill as well, exposing herself as a bit of a glutton for punishment, I guess, in the process: “There is no way that this place has good BBQ,” she adamantly opines. “Every time I eat there, the fish, I get ill with diarea (sic).” And after a recent brunch in Dearborn, Cates bitched about “thievery” perpetrated against her party of five in the form of an auto-gratuity (welcome to our world, lady), and having to pay for toast (imagine that, in a breakfast place), and getting “overcharged” for and extra tea bag. Sigh.
And so it seems to go with these two gripe-a-lots, ad nauseam. Some people should just stay home and spare us all their piss-and-moan misery.
Michigan reunion tour stops update: Continuing to reconnect with old friends from my Dearborn boyhood, I’m finding mention-worthy restaurants dotting the neighborhoods I’m getting to know again. Invited out to dinner at Antonio’s in Dearborn Heights two Sundays ago, I had seconds of what the prolific Rugiero restaurant family’s been offering metro Detroit Italian food aficionados since 1964. Not having enjoyed the pleasure of its hospitality since my visit to Roman Village last spring, I got a good refresher course in what keeps their handful of family businesses thriving in the always crowded theater of Italian dining operations.
Catering to a group of old friends dropping in unannounced during a bustling, prime-time dinner service, Antonio’s slid us right in. Proceeding into three-hours of loud conversations and laughter, we were indulged by Antonio’s convivial crew and customers alike, who laughed with us over the old, misspent youth stories we couldn’t help but retell in full throat. Antonio’s kitchen made more than admirable efforts to shut our mouths early on with high-caliber platters of piled-high antipasto and calamari. My old partner in crime Bill had a look on his face like we’d just robbed a bank, pondering Mediterranean salad topped with countless coins of beautiful beets and good-as-gold nuggets of Feta enough to feed a Greek frat house. I couldn’t finish half of my seafood linguini after those first courses. More’s the pity, since I left behind a likely two-pound to-go box filled with the Rugiero’s better-than-great garlic bread and the rest of that pasta. After two glasses of Jack on the rocks every drop of four fingers deep, our most generous friend, Tony, decided to pick up the tab for the entire table. Salute! The rest of us left Antonio’s none the lighter in our tighter wallets, fat and happy over time spent together again after an evening feast well-served and hosted by the family Rugiero. Cent’ Anni! to them and their hospitality, and to friendships old and new, and experiences which become memories that last lifetimes and keep us forever young on the inside, at least.
And if I’ve asked this before, forgive me: While dining at Antonio’s, I overheard table talk behind me on lottery-winning strategies. Some guy was swearing that he wins some here and there whenever he really tries to clear his mind and let images of winning numbers come to him. Another take from the table voiced belief that one should always play strong feelings on what numbers might come up, and still another claimed to win once on numbers she pulled out of a fortune cookie, of all things. Honestly, I had that same experience years ago, but only to the tune of seven dollars. The fortune on the other side read, “He who sups heavily on bean curd, sleeps alone,” or something along those lines.
From counting cards to playing hunches, almost every gambler seems to have a system where games of chance are concerned. Some I’ve heard subscribe to mind power as a strategy. Truthfully, I’ve had a premonition or two in my day. But how many psychics, I wonder, have won big in Powerball? Hmmm.
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