Welcome!

Welcome to my new blog -- iEATdetroit! 

I am beginning a journey to tell the world about my favorite city - Detroit, Michigan.  I am not from the city of Detroit, but the metropolitan area.  I have grown up around the culture of this city and this region.  It is fair to say that the historical significance and shared cultural consciousness of this place has in every way enveloped my curiosity.  Detroit, to me, is really a gem of the Midwest; a city forged by the hands of its people.  The architecture and the monuments all emblematic of the sweat and strength it took to chisel one of the nation's most important cities from the sturdiest and hardiest of rock. The personality of this place has been developed in the image of the people who inhabit the shores of the Detroit River and the sprawling regions to the north: the men and women who worked on the assembly lines and who constructed these historic edifices.  The restaurant owners, the business executives, ticket scalpers and the parking lot attendants.  The musicians, the students, the tycoons, the Red Wings, the Pistons, the Lions and the Tigers.  It is the gritty working class and the stalwart winter wayfarers trudging through knee-high snowdrifts that define the attitude of our hometown. 

Perseverance. A stiff upper-lip.  These are the words we use to describe Detroit.  We are a hard people but we have passion.  Our people have seen what can happen when the rest of the world turns their back on you.  We want no pity.  We hate pity.  Instead, we callous; if we were not good enough for you when times got tough, then you will not be welcome when our city rises from the ashes.  And it will rise from the ashes.

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If you talk to anyone from this part of the world, they will tell you a different history of the City of Detroit.  My favorite cab driver, Greg, will tell you about how he built Comerica Park and Ford Field.  He took his breaks sitting on the edge of the roof of the future football stadium watching the Tigers play ball on muggy July afternoons.  Greg will tell you about how construction stopped in Detroit and he took jobs in Kalamazoo, 150 miles west, just to put food on the table.  Now he is "retired" and driving a cab around the city to keep him busy and give him a reason to leave his home in the morning.  He'll tell you about "Sneaker Day." Back when the basketball team was actually in the city of Detroit, the Pistons used to let kids come to the game for free as long as they donated a pair of sneakers.  Those were the best days of Greg's childhood.  He could afford to watch his idols Dave Bing and Bob Laineer take the court and defend his city.


Head southwest across the highway and into Mexican Town.  You will be welcome with open arms.  Talk to the families and learn about where they came from.  You might be surprised to learn how their parents and grandparents took work up in a burgeoning metropolis and created a comfortable home where they were able to work hard and get paid in American dollars.  They took their family traditions and they opened a restaurant that is now run by the third generation.

When I was a kid, my father took me to the Polish Yacht Club and the Ivanhoe Cafe.  Now that is real food.  Opened in 1909 and managed by only two families since its inception, the Polish Yacht Club is like a mausoleum, reminding everyone of the rich history that was old Poletown. An establishment that has truly defied the odds. And just like the food, the people have a unique, hearty flavor that is hard to explain in three or four sentences.  The Polish people of Detroit are not like the Polish people from other parts of the country. The influence of the Polish community of Detroit is evident all over southeastern Michigan.  From Poletown to Hamtramck and north through the suburbs, there are first, second and third generation Detroiters with Polish roots.  They do not all cook delicious kielbasa but they may be leaders of the car companies and other business that once thrived and the new ones that will come in to fill the void.

You want Italian? We got Italian. Just open your eyes.  People of Italian decent have made Detroit their home for generations.  One of the best ways to enrich your life is to drive up Second Avenue and sit down at Mario's Italian Restaurant.  The experience of sitting in the same dining room where Detroiters have been stuffing their face with veal parmesan and lasagna for generations is one that everyone needs to have.  Period.  When they open the door, you become part of the family.  Whether you have eaten lunch there every day for 35 years or it is your first time, eating at Mario's just feels right.  Grab some tickets from the bar for a show at the Fox, they have them available for their customers to buy in a package that includes dinner and a ride to and from the theater.  Hospitality and customer service; these are long forgotten practices. But do not tell that to the staff that still don tuxedos, cook tableside and lay down a delicious portion of Italian relish and bread the moment you take your seat! Still, just because you have not been around since 1948 does not mean you can't whip up a mean minestrone.  The Angelina Italian Bistro on Broadway, right by Comerica Park, is a relatively new restaurant compared to Mario's, but the authentic, traditional and tongue-tingling family recipes are simply an extension of co-owner Tom Agosta's personality and family heritage.  He is usually in the restaurant at the host stand, happy to tell you about living his dream, unless of course the place is packed with hungry guests.  You might just have to order one of many Michigan-made beers they have on tap or order a glass of one of their "Quirky Whites" while you wait for a table.

Greektown is so much a part of Detroit and our culture that for many people, it defines the city.  A small, walkable neighborhood of restaurants and other bad habits, Greektown reeks of family, culture and, of course, saganaki, a traditional flaming cheese dish.  Just thinking about the smells, the music and the faux-greek script that smothers you as you walk along Monroe street makes me hungry.  And much like the aroma from the restaurants of Greektown, Greek culture cannot be contained by one small quarter of the city. The coney island restaurants that dot Woodward avenue from Detroit all the way to Pontiac each stem from a rich tradition of family recipes and entrepreneurship that defines the people and our community.

Vietnamese and Chinese culture.  Jewish heritage.  African-American history.  The list of influences on the history of our City is never ending.  When I am asked about what I think of the city of Detroit, I often have a hard time putting into words why I am so proud to call this area home.  It is certainly not because of the unemployment rate or the suburban sprawl or the school system or public transportation.  Instead, it is entirely about the people and their stories.  And the food. There is no more direct thoroughfare to the soul of the Detroiter than by way of food. Equally as elegant and refined as the city around it, our cuisine tells a story of an anthropological history both rich and bold. Our restaurateurs, sommeliers and chefs more storytellers and playwrights than mere cooks and managers.  This blog is meant to take those stories and passions and twist them into a credo, a mantra of sorts that will hopefully show the world that there is much more to Detroit than national news statistics and boring slander.

The beauty of Detroit is unique. The kind you have to be around your whole life to appreciate - or kind of squint your eyes and turn your head to understand.  Its obscurity, stubbornness and heartiness are the frills.  The sculpture that rests at the mouth of Woodward Avenue, the fist of Joe Louis, says it all. As beautiful as it is dark and as powerful as it is massive. Eight-thousand pounds of clay, steel and bronze.  

Ours is the melting pot of cultures that meet common struggles and attempt to defy the odds through hard work. These are the themes of the city of Detroit that make me proud.  Quite simply put, this is Detroit, here is our story.