When I lived on the east side of Detroit – a four-year aberration; I am otherwise a lifelong west-sider – I grew fond of the Pointes, or ‘The Grosse Pointe Communities’ as a new (to me) sign on I-94 would have it.
My dentist there attended kindergarten with my doctor there, and pointed out the school’s flagpole in the window of his exam room. The Pointes are like that.
I was there yesterday on some old business, and I was happy to see that nothing had changed.
Me: Could you recommend someplace for a late lunch?
*Anne: Let's see...Bambu, across the street, has good soup.
Me: Bambu…Is it Asian?
Anne: I don’t think so. The people who own it aren’t Asian. Here, let me show you.
(We walk out onto Kercheval.)
Anne: There it is. Bambu.
Me: Their OPEN sign is not lit.
Anne: Oh. They may be closed…They may close between proper lunch and dinner...Do you like jazz?
Me: Yes, very much.
Anne: Well, you might try the Dirty Dog. They have small plates...They have jazz in the evening, but you could look around, it’s very nice inside.
(An A-frame sign on the sidewalk in front of the Dirty Dog announces it is Closed For A Private Function.)
Anne: Oh.
Me: What about…Lucy?
(Lucy has a façade of pressed tin painted black.)
Me: Is it a pub?
Anne: We used to go there, but…it’s…changed hands.
(This exhausts the possibilities within sight. I mention a place I’d been to in Grosse Pointe Village, a few blocks to the west.)
Anne: It’s still there, but…it’s changed hands.
(I mention another place I’d been to in the Village.)
Anne: It’s changed hands.
(Anne looks tired now.)
Me: Well…thanks again, Anne!
Anne: Thank-you and good luck.
*not her real name
*not her real name
