ROADIES / FAT CATZ

As chronicled in past reviews, there is not much that can keep Tony and I from our appointed Friday Night Bug Juice rounds. Not the icy glare of a winter road, nor the similar icy glare of a loved one left at home will keep us from venturing out and about.

Our Mom convalescing from an unexpected hospital visit is a sure way to keep two acknowledged Mama’s Boys from getting our drink on (for a week anyway). Before getting to this week’s long awaited reviews (by Tony and I anyway), allow me to make a few observations about our wonderful five day, four night, no expense paid visit to exotic Oakwood Hospital:

I watched a young girl battle gum disease in the germ infested waiting room by flossing her teeth in plain view of all. What a brave lass!
Young love blossomed in front of my very eyes as a man popped a huge pimple on the nose of his best girl in that same waiting room. To see these two look over their hard fought prize, cooing, was indeed special.
Once our mom settled into her exam room, I was touched to see that our new friend across the hall introduced himself to us by sitting open legged in his hospital gown. To see his middle aged junk hanging low was to look into the window of his soul.
It did my heart good to hear two hospital employees arguing about treatment in front of my mom. Not necessarily about what was right for her, but about who was really in charge in Room 723. Stand tall men!
Finally, late one night as we were about to leave, a young male nurse stopped us in our tracks to talk about our mom’s pulmonary issues and her invasive upcoming tests. As he took in the shock in our faces, he turned the chart around and breezily corrected himself. It was Maria lying awake and listening in the bed next to my mom whose chart he was reading. What a scamp!

The time away from joy juice coupled with the anxieties at home led Tony to proclaim that he would make up for missing last week by doubling his efforts this week (his work ethic is admirable). We decided to expand our horizons, and give you, the reader, more to consider by venturing into Macomb County.

Our first drinks came at Roadie’s Pub in Warren, on West Chicago just west of VanDyke. No problem parking in the lot adjacent to the building, and no line getting into this good sized barn sitting on the north side of the street. The bouncer nicked us for $3 apiece, not a problem when a live band is playing.

There are bars at the front and back of the room, though the bar at the back was unoccupied during our visit. It took a couple of minutes to hail our waitress ( the spitting image of Amy Irving, right down to the crazy perm), but the $6.50 price tag seemed reasonable. We toasted my son Max, as it was his 21st birthday and the games began.

Looking at the busy room, we wondered why we traveled so far from home to see a downriver crowd. Definitely not dressed to impress, and not giving a shit about making their mark. So far, so good. It was a group skewed a bit older than most, and this bunch was ready for fun.

Leading the way into the land of fun was the band, Groove Council. Lead by a feisty chick on vocals, this horn driven group belted out funk from back in the day. I heard Pick up the Pieces by Average White Band, Gimme Some Loving by Spencer Davis and other dance tunes by Stevie Wonder and Sam and Dave. Not a typical bar band, thank God. This big sounding bunch kept the narrow dance floor filled to capacity, lots of big gals and the guys that love them.

Tony and I stood at the back of the well designed room, a mix of four person tables and more intimate bar height tables. We glanced at sports and Keno on the obligatory televisions above the front bar, but Groove Council kept the focus.

Roadies Pub would be a great place to bring a date. You don’t see any phony tough guys peacocking around, the prices are reasonable and the crowded nature of the dance floor means that you can dance with your lady and not have to do too much or stand out. Trust me guys, we need that.

We decided earlier in the week that this would be a two bar kind of night, so we reluctantly ventured out into the cold to nearby Fat Catz in Warren on VanDyke, just North of 696. We had a great time on the short drive, singing horribly along to The Frost tune, Rock and Roll Music ( undoubtedly the finest opening song to any live album).

Parking at Fat Catz is a cinch. Getting in proved to be a bit of a pain in the ass, not because of cover (there is none), but because of the two wiseass chicks hanging with the bouncer at the front door. The bustier broad wanted to compare chests with me and seemed put off that I resisted. She asked to see my ID and got a kick out of the notion that one so old could be asked to show proof of age. Why is it that the bustier the broad, the more hilarious and interesting they think they are?

Once inside, a couple of cold ones set us back $7.50. We settled in to listen to Dirty Sanchez (naming your band after a nasty sex act is like picking the number 69 for your softball jersey). They were a hard rocking bunch, though I am hard pressed to recall any of their songs. Nor could Tony, when I challenged him to do the same a couple of days later. Either we were bagged, or they were utterly forgettable.

The layout of the place was fine, a large U-shaped room with pool tables and people tables surrounding the band and dance floor. The crowd was way young, lots of testosterone and edginess. A sea of Ed Hardy shirts and recently purchased vintage tees.

Oh shit, here comes the chick from the front door. More hilarity and tits. Only she doesn’t hear or doesn’t get all the great retorts coming her way from an inebriated Tony (you cannot win a match of wits with this guy, drunk or not). I hear and remember them all and now realize that I was not bagged and that it was indeed the utter forgettableness of Dirty Sanchez that keeps me from recalling their set list.

This is a one and out bar, and Tony and I do just that, hustling to old favorite Rosie O’Grady’s for last call.

Cheers,
-Jim


Roadies:  7231 Chicago Rd. Warren, MI 48092



Fat Catz:  27253 Van Dyke Rd. Warren, MI 48093

CHERRY MARTINI

If I had fans of this web site, I am sure that one of the questions that would spring up is, “How do you guys select the bars you visit?” Well, yet to be found fan, Tony and I either draw from our extensive past travels or use this new fangled technology called the world wide web to find our weekly selections.

I used the web last week and selected two east side haunts, Robusto’s and The Hard Luck Lounge for a double barreled review. It could have been the crappy weather or the tough work week or the lack of patrons at either site, but the visits were so nondescript that a good time was had by none. This is ground breaking as Tony and I have been able to have fun at any shithole we have walked into. We tried to salvage the evening by catching last call at The Old Shillelagh. This failed, as we got turned around when leaving and ended up driving aimlessly through some of Detroit’s finest neighborhoods.

We even exchanged some testy words at work on Monday when comparing notes on that evening. I was feeling persecuted for being the one who suggested these two disasters and accused Tony of second guessing. At one point, I stole a line from “Snatch” and said, “ If I give a dog a bone, I don’t want to be told it doesn’t taste good.” Neither Tony or I knew exactly how it related to the situation at hand, but we both knew that he was the dog in my reference, and that is bullshit. I think I apologized, if not I sure should have.

This brings us around to the past Friday and my internet inspired suggestion of The Cherry Martini in Canton. As we did the previous week, we hashed out the suggestion and decided to make a go of it. The air was thick with tension during the half hour drive to Cherry Hill Road west of Beck. Both men were alone with their thoughts...

The Cherry Martini is in the middle of nowhere. You are traveling west on Cherry Hill Road, past civilization and into an area that combines some stubborn farms and housing tracts that feature golf course living and three “distinct” housing options that look exactly the same ( “What are you talking about, can’t you see that the flashing above our bay window is copper?”).

Street parking is easy around this place, given that you have stumbled upon an attempt to create a second downtown Canton. There are awful condos, a theatre, some dark businesses and The Cherry Martini.

There is no cover and no delay getting into the bar. It is a handsome space, a long rectangle with floor to ceiling glass walls looking out onto Cherry Hill Road. This would be even better if there was something to see on Cherry Hill (cars or people, and not just tumbleweeds blowing by). It is also very dark inside ( a godsend to a man with an old, spotty head), the dark punctuated by glowing red lights (it’s the Cherry Martini, remember).

Throughout the evening, Tony speculated that this would be an even better place to visit in the summer. His reasoning was that the wall of windows would reveal a vibrant street scene. He offered this opinion more frequently and with more volume as the night progressed. I did not share his belief, but given the angst of the past week, I kept this difference of opinion largely under wraps.

Getting a beer proved to be a chore. I saw lots of waitresses who were hot and excelled at looking busy without actually carrying drinks. A hip looking dude spent a lot of time behind the bar filling ice and flirting with the waitstaff. The barmaid spent her time at the opposite end of this long bar talking with a small knot of guys. When we finally got our beers, they turned out to be $7.50 for the pair. Later, the same two would be $7.75 and then $7. When Tony ordered a solo Labatt Blue, it was $4.75. I never could figure out what the damn things cost, but neither could the barmaid and she works at the place.

The crowd was consistent with what you would expect at a place with “Martini” in the title. A group of twenty somethings, dressed a bit better than average, or if dressed down, dressed down in clothes bought at Hot Topic. Apparently, news of the Cherry Martini has not reached the various ethnic communities around Detroit.

It was a friendly group, looking to chat, dance or pose with oversized martini glasses in their hands. This long, narrow club has a variety of seating available, comfy leather couches and chairs arranged in tight clusters to promote conversation. Tony and I sat at the bar the whole time, not wanting to frighten the younger generation with our time worn negativity or tight trousers.

Entertainment at Cherry Martini is provided by a DJ. Just as I was criticizing the crap the DJ du jour was spinning, Tony pointed out that the tiny dance floor at one end of the club was packed. I expect music to have a beginning, an end, and a distinct hook. When it is a cold beat that moves seamlessly from one “song” to another, I get sad. The techno crap was interrupted by occasional forays into disco, a stab at irony, no doubt. Still, the dancing continued.

If you are not into dancing, the music is just loud enough to allow strained conversation. A friendly girl sitting next to us at the bar introduced herself, and after talking briefly, Tony and I compared notes and discovered that neither of us could actually hear her name or precious else that was said. Whether or not that is due to the music volume, advanced age or ear hair is up for conjecture.

The Cherry Martini is not a disaster in the sense of the previous week, but is not a great destination either. Maybe in the summertime...

Cheers!

-Jim


Cherry Martini:  50296 Cherry Hill Rd. Canton, MI 48187