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
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