I can’t begin to imagine the number of times that someone has taken me to a restaurant that, left to my own initiative, I never would have tried.
I know better than to judge a restaurant by its appearance, but I also know that I should drop a few pounds, give to charity and obey the speed limit.
On balance most of my adventures into unknown dining establishments have turned out to be fine. Or better. In fact, quite often a great little gem has been uncovered.
One such place is The Corner Bar and Grill in Kalamazoo, MI. At least it was. In a building dating to the late 1800s, The Corner Bar and Grill recently closed its doors. While it has been more than a decade since I shouldered through the flimsy, grimy doors, I still have a sweet spot for it in my gastronomical garage.
In the 1950s, when my mom was a hippie, it was a hangout for that crowd.
In the ’80s and ’90s when I frequented the joint, Tuesday night was cigar night. Even though I don’t smoke, the atmosphere of cigar smoke, Miller High Life served up in 8-oz glasses from the ’40s, and amazing ribs made for a great break from the hours of setting type and making printing plates at the local newspaper. Plus they had free popcorn to keep you thirsty and downing the amber liquid of joy.
The Corner Bar and Grill was dirty. It was old. It had a dozen floor elevations due to sagging floors and failed attempts to repair or update.
Judging from its outward appearance you would be forgiven for thinking that the building housed an enterprise that rebuilt carburetors. Or fabricated farm implements. But no, it was a place to eat. In public.
And people did eat there. From young dropouts to yuppies, to members of the UAW — you might see every walk of life in there at any time.
But why was it so high on my list? Those ribs!
I love ribs. But I’m picky. I generally have a rule about bones: I don’t eat around them. I don’t work for my food. I want to get in and out quickly with as little muss and fuss as possible. I don’t even eat chicken drumsticks unless the Colonel himself is threatening me with court martial. I want to cut and fork my meat like a civilized neanderthal.
For this reason if I’m to enjoy a rack, they must be tender, so very tender. The flesh must fall off the bone at the mere suggestion of fork movement. And the barbecue sauce must be thick, sweet, tangy and not very spicy. And there needs to be enough surplus sauce to suffocate every last potato wedge and dinner roil. The ribs served up by The Corner Bar and Grill were delicious, copious in quantity and cheap. And they were good, too.
Clinically it was a disgusting place, not suitable for public ingestion. I’m sure it had been several administrations since the place saw any sort of cleaning effort. I shudder to consider what lived on the other side of those flippy doors to the kitchen. Egads!
I’m sorry it’s now gone. Even though they haven’t benefited from this big tipping public eater since 1999, I wanted one of the best places in my personal history to go on. Go on so that one day I might stage a triumphant return and so that others coming along behind me could enjoy the time machine that was The Corner Bar and Grill.
Goodbye, my friend.