Café d'Mongo's Speakeasy

This week’s biggest gossip is too incriminating to share. It has to do with the infamous proprietor of a once-a-week establishment and his night with a midget. Is that terminology un-PC? I meant Tiny-American. Those who know what I am referring to are, no doubt, cringing in horror right now. To those in the dark, let this be a reminder that the best times at Cafe D’Mongo’s happen after 2 am.

In other, less titillating, news I went with Detroit News Girl, Christina Rogers, as Louis Aguilar’s plus one to the secret Super Bowl dinner party at the Burton Theatre. (Mr Aguilar was sent to Kentucky last minute for a story.) Since it was a secret party, am I not supposed reveal that I attended? Is this socially uncouth? Too late. I went. It was marvelous. ClandesDine Detroit. Google it. Others far more articulate than I have already written about this event in great detail with color photographs.

It was a room full of two hundred dinner guests. Andy from the coasts was there. So too was the photographer Fabrizio Costantini. Known at Cafe D’Mongo’s for the Obama photo that hangs across from the bar, he may be one of my favorite people ever. A few of the Russell Street folks were also there including him–why can I never remember his name? The handsome fellow who runs the Eastern Market soup stand on Hans’ off days and comes to the bar with a pretty lady–what is his name? I also ran across Jackie Victor explaining to some man that, no, she does not work at Avalon Bread. She is an owner. Apparently, Toby Barlow was also there. I, however, didn’t find out until the next day when David informed me of his name left in the Burton guest book.

(Everyone: If you haven’t already, read Sharp Teeth.)

Aside from not meeting Toby Barlow, Christina and I spent much of our time in the upstairs office/projection/coat room with Burton owners, David, Matt, and Nate. (Was Jeff watching cars all night?) Here I had the pleasure to meet Jen, Nate’s vivacious girlfriend. The running joke of the evening was that the organizers asked the Burton to use their space for an awesome party but didn’t actually invite them–which actually didn’t matter as they were well fed, well liquored and well paid for their inconvenience. No one was complaining.

Downstairs, the Super Bowl was projected onto walls. I must admit, it was the first time I had ever watched a football game, and I was shocked to find men actually standing for the National Anthem. I couldn’t tell if it was heartfelt or ironic. The men in question were thirty-somethings with full beards that were equally hard to distinguish. Were these beards ironic? Or were these woodsmen? Patriots or cynics? In the theatre, the Burton pursued an anti-Super Bowl theme, screening an eclectic set of shorts that ranged from surrealist to Believer documentary. The entire school was alive, captivated by moving images, various meats, veggie options and conversation. So engrossed was this crowd that no one, save a few tall men opening windows, seemed to notice or mind the fire alarm sounding for nearly twenty minutes.

I didn’t even mind when I learned that someone’s girlfriend called me “intense.” Rather, I recalled something Virginia Woolf said about Vivienne Haigh-Wood being a “bag of ferrets” around TS Eliot’s neck.

Indeed, a grand time was had by all. The only thing missing, if I may be so bold, were Larry’s stories and a few ex-wife jokes delivered by D’Mongo’s own Robert Nelson. For those of you who don’t know Mr Nelson, he is the hard drinking shampoo salesman with a heart of gold and the biggest rock collection in town. He’s like confetti and white powder: he makes a great time better. Or rather, he, along with his other half, the voluptuous Nancy, and her awe inspiring cleavage. Nancy, I love your cleavage.

And you, Mr Man-Behind-the-Secret: I adore you, your girlfriend and your entourage. Thank you for revitalizing Corktown, making Detroit a great place to eat, and allowing me to score a golden ticket to your magical party. I do hope Louis is invited to the next one.