There may already be a review for Crystal Bar and Grill somewhere in this shady website, but I don’t care for two reasons. One, I don’t feel like wading through the tripe to see if it exists. Two, and more importantly, when it was written, Anthony and I had a great go-to bar in Birmingham called Edison’s. All other bars were compared to that, and none measured up.
When Edison’s tearfully closed for remodeling over a year ago, Anthony and I became Friday night nomads, traveling from bar to bar in search of a good time.
We tried the One Under Bar (young person douche factor off the charts), Dick O’Dows (Birmingham douche factor off the charts), Chatters (depressing) and Elie’s (one of us drunkenly and obviously stole the bar phone from its cradle making sure we can’t show our faces there until the statute of limitations kicks in).
Truthfully, things haven’t been that bad. All of the aforementioned joints and some others that I failed to mention serve cold beer and have allowed us to live like teenagers for four hours a week. Still, deciding on a place to hang has been a drag and you can only bag on your fellow patrons for so long.
We needed a live band, a drunken dance floor and an older crowd.
We needed Crystal Bar and Grill.
The trip to head back to Crystal came from my older son Max. While he did confirm the three things boozing partner Tony and I look for in a bar, he also mentioned three other characteristics based on his visits: crowded, hot, smelled of vomit. Since none of those are deal breakers, the Friday Night Bug Juice crew made its way to Middlebelt Road in Westland, south of Joy Road for a look see.
As soon as I pulled into the jammed parking lot with no way out, I remembered being here. I backed past other soon to be bummed revelers pulling in and made my way to the huge parking lot across the street for easy parking. From there, you play a game of real life Frogger crossing icy Middlbelt Road, dodging cars instead of crocs.
There is no cover to get in and seemingly no door person making sure you are of age. A quick scan of the crowd tells you why. I don’t believe that there are any patrons south of thirty in this joint, and many over fifty. This means that the lights are blessedly low, the music played is relatable and puckered lip selfies are rare. It also means that you might have to move aside so a fellow boozer can use the hand rails to enter or exit the slightly raised dance floor.
The layout of Crystal has presented issues for the Bug Juice Two. There are many tables and chairs at the rear of the bar which we never consider. If you sit back there, you might as well be in your car in the parking lot listening to the oldies station. Standing at the bar is never possible, as it is always jammed with patrons who have a “I never go home” look about them. The raised area in front of the band and dance floor is a no-go because it is routinely filled with large party groups.
Rule 37 in the Friday Night Bug Juice handbook is “overcome and adapt” (It’s not just a rule, it ‘s a way of life). Tony and I have taken to standing toward the back of the band stand with the entire dance floor and bar spread out in front of us. You do feel a bit obvious standing there...until the first beers are quaffed that is. In a matter of minutes, any discomfort you may have experienced is washed away courtesy of our friends Miller and Labatt.
The old adage that patience is a virtue certainly can be applied to fetching beers at Crystal. Standing in the queue, being jostled while trying to catch the hard working barmaids attention to fork over $7.75 for two beers is the order of the day. Two hard working waitresses continually patrol the floor. Both are pretty as you might expect, but both seem genuinely nice which is a little unexpected. They interact with the older crowd like friends. One of the hardworking pair, Kristin, talked with Little Brother and I for quite awhile, considering the demands on her attention. Not, “I want more tip money” stripper talking either. Chummy.
I tried to describe the patrons of Crystal to my wife, and after boring her for a few minutes she observed, “sounds like a downriver crowd.”
What is a downriver crowd? It is drunk, oblivious to recent trends such as fitness or skin care, wears whatever the hell is handy, rides motorcycles in the dead of winter, dances with abandon and has no problem getting acquainted with two newcomers trying to shake off the effects of a long work week.
Some Crystal encounters:
The bar has security cameras outside chronicling the goings on in the parking lot and smoking areas. This has allowed me to check out Tony when he steps outside to enjoy a Capone. He takes on the pose of an old time movie star, leaning against the wall, chin tilted up, billowing smoke into the cold night air. One night, I observed him talking to a big gal that followed him outside. The conversation was a short one. He came back in with a smirk on his face, informing me that the big gal thought we were cops, serious ones to boot. When he answered with a snort and “fuck cops”, she replied that her husband was a cop. Tony managed, “I ‘m sure he’s cool,” before stubbing out his Capone and heading back inside.
On one trip, the FNBJ two managed to grab a table with a great view of the sweaty dance floor. Tony had just left for a smoke, when the drunkest guy in the bar stumbled over and plopped himself down in Tony’s chair. I told him that my brother would be back soon and that he would need to leave. It made no dent. He stared at me blankly, his huge cell phone lighting up his weasel face. A slightly less drunk buddy of his came by and tried to reason with him. No go. Less drunk grabbed drunk’s cell phone and held it five feet in front of him, like a fishing lure. It worked. Drunk got up, glassy eyes fixed on the phone and followed it to an empty chair near the bar. His mannequin eyes never left the phone to his friend holding it. When drunk plopped into the chair, less drunk handed him back the phone. I was rid of him, or so I thought...
Later that night, Tony was out having a Capone (are you detecting a trend here?), when drunk came back over to talk with me. He was able to communicate by mumbling and pointing to photos on his phone/lure. He showed me small images of his women (some had teeth) before proudly settling on a full screen shot of a custom car. He gestured to the company logo on his shirt, then at the image on the phone as sounds came out of his hole. I speak fluent drunk and understood that the company he works for customizes cars. “Nice” was all I could manage. This pleased him no end. He started scrolling through more images of cars, while I looked around for Tony and wondered what else I could say besides “Nice” when shown the next photo. Drunk came close. He nodded at his phone. It was a photo of his home computer with a gun and silencer posed casually in front of the keyboard. “You want to buy a gun?” That I understood. “No, man.” I said this clear and looked at him for a second before turning my back and checking out the band. A line had been crossed. It was no time for fucking around. This time, he never came back.
I just finished proofreading this review (yes, I edit and proofread, this is the best I got smart ass), and am not sure if I have painted a positive review of the Crystal Bar and Grill. My partner in immaturity and I both believe that it is our best destination since the demise of Edison’s. If it’s good enough for us, it’s good enough.
Cheers! Jim
PS I would be remiss if I did not mention the classic rock stylings of The Clatter, a band we have seen rock the house on multiple occasions. This three piece pays homage to the roots of rock, one hit wonders and Motown. They put people on the dance floor. Besides, the bass player/singer took a trip down memory lane with me between sets talking West Side Six bar and favorite sons White Wolf from 1975. Later that night, I did the math. I have been loving beer and live music for forty years and see no reason to stop now.
