Among the swells

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