The day broke clear and crisp, the kind you get in Michigan during the fall. I made my way outside to check on my best man Rob and usher Jeff, two of my closest friends since forever. Both were ready to get the party started, and we talked things over while tossing a football around in the street. Going to Denny’s for breakfast seemed like a good idea. And, for maybe the first time in five years, the three of us went somewhere without first getting stoned (most of my stories from this period of life start like this...”We were headed to the store, smoking a joint”...”We were going camping and just bought a quarter pound of weed”...”We had to go to the funeral, so we arrived pre-rolled”).
It wasn’t until the grand slam had been wolfed down, and I was back at my parent’s house that the nerves set in. I showered and shaved, carefully avoiding the soon to be honking pimple. I thoughtlessly combed my hair (if I knew baldness was right around the corner I would have cherished those moments) and noticed that my balls were pulling up tight to my body. Now I was petrified. Not because I wasn’t sure about Andrea, but because I was going to co-star in a three hundred person play.
I put on my tux, an off white number with chocolate brown trim (Andrea gave me one job for the wedding, pick the tux, and I blew it). I could not wait to get to Holy Cross Hungarian Church and get this thing in gear. The hour prior to the ceremony was dominated by the photographer. I normally detest getting my picture taken, but on this day I was grateful for the intrusion. Before I knew it, I got word that it was time to line up with my best man and ushers. The aforementioned Rob and Jeff, my brothers Mike and Tony and future brother-in-law Danny stood at attention on the altar. All I recall from that portion of the ceremony was telling Tony to walk slowly down the aisle. Why I thought he needed reminding, I have no idea (young?).
The ceremony took forever, my wife looked radiant in her gown ( a restored beauty that her mother had previously worn) and I was filled with joy as we made our way down the aisle and gathered in the small vestibule at the front of church. It got crazy back there. Loud and hectic was the order of the day. Lots of kissing, hugging and crying. Some of the girls got emotional too.
After the ceremony, my sister Chris threw a beautiful and lavish party at her home to fill the two or three hours between wedding and reception. This is where things kicked up a notch. I seem to recall champagne popping everywhere, walking in on people “covertly” getting high and wondering how this rowdy bunch was going to keep it up for another six hours.
I should not have worried. The party and reception flew by in a haze of drinking, dancing and kissing. The photos from the beginning of the reception look a hell of lot different than those at the end. When the hall manager announced that the evening was over, my dad tried to bribe him into keeping the place, and more specifically the bar, open for another half hour (I guess I got the “I don’t know when to quit” gene from him). My final memory from the reception was Rob tipping back a serving tray with the evenings booze sloshed on it, drinking it down like a Roman warrior.
We stopped in at a local watering hole for last call, before my beautiful bride pried me away from my friends to begin our first married night together. I can still recall the look of exasperation on her face. Our first married moment of disappointment!
And speaking of disappointments...You would think that a great place to watch the end of Game 3 of the Stanley Cup semifinals would be at Cheli’s Bar in downtown Dearborn. Having to pay for parking in the municipal lots surrounding the bar on the north side of Michigan Avenue west of the Southfield Freeway was the first ass pain of the evening.
There is no cover to enter the bar. And, as expected, there were hordes of Wing fans vying for space to watch the pivotal game. What was not expected was the degree of difficulty getting a beer. There was one huge bar and one small bar on the main floor. The crowd around the huge bar was daunting, so Tony and I made our way to the smaller venue in hopes of snagging our drinks. We waited there for five minutes and never saw anyone manning this station.
On to the bigger bar. The ring of Wing fans around this bar was four deep in most spots. I felt I was on to something when I saw an opening at the far end near the windows looking out on Michigan Avenue. Here I could clearly see that there was one barmaid trying (?) to keep up with the thirsty patrons and the demanding waitstaff. Getting her to notice me was impossible. Perhaps it was the scowl on her face, furrowing her brow and narrowing her eyes which prevented my being seen (think Clint Eastwood in any Clint Eastwood flick).
I tried in vain to flag down any of the three or four waitresses who walked briskly by. About fifteen minutes had passed by and we were no closer to getting a drink. Did I mention that the sound on the televisions surrounding the bar was a horrible combination of loud and treble. I looked back at Tony, and we both agreed that it was time to move on.
Back out the door, heading toward Michigan Avenue and any of the other bars within walking distance. But wait, what about the steep set of outside steps heading up to Cheli’s outdoor patio? If we could make our way up there and grab a brew, Tony and I would miss less of the riveting third period. There, overlooking downtown Dearborn, we found large round tables, televisions and most importantly, a small bar much less crowded than the others, manned by an actual person. I made my way to the bar and was fucking ignored again. It took this barmaid a good five minutes to deal with three people and take my order. Oh yeah, no Miller products up here (maybe they don’t do well in the rarified air), so I settled for two Labatts at $7 (in a can, no less). Still, I was finally drinking and watching what was left of the third period.
The patio is a pretty cool space, and features large round picnic tables, many televisions and a less tinny sound system. Still, it remained tough to get a refill and the Wings lost early in overtime (can’t blame the bar or its owner for that...Chelios watched this game from the press box where presumably it was easier for him to be served).
Before I forget, this was not my first time at Cheli’s. Once, I went there with my wife, sat on the upper patio in the middle of summer and sipped a beer. While the two of us occupied one of the large picnic tables, Cheli himself stopped by and asked if we would mind having a few people join us at our table due to limited space. While my wife stared at his Greek good looks, I told him that would be fine. A couple of minutes later, a waitress stopped by with complimentary drinks from Chris. Very nice. I have also eaten there. My wife makes better chili.
Tony and I spent the rest of the night chasing a good time, but never really catching it. The Post Bar, Glass Mug and All Around were hit, the Post being the only place to stand out.
Disappointed in the Wings, but confident they will comeback. Disappointed in Cheli’s, we will not be coming back.
Cheers!
-Jim
Cheli's Chili Bar: 21918 Michigan Ave. Dearborn, MI 48124
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