I discovered the ramshackle tar paper shack while casting around the neighborhood looking for places to eat in 1988 when I was assigned to teach at an adult education center close to there. I was aware that the tavern had an upscale following among yuppies who wanted to slum it for a night. After Oktoberfest at the Dakota Inn, graduates of the University of Detroit are frequently drawn to Tom's for a post-party. I have seen online pictures of these revels, but I have always departed from Oktoberfest at the Dakota early when I still could stand to attend. Oktoberfest at the Dakota Inn has impressed me as being a little to well organized. The Dakota Inn wasn’t built with a Frankenmuth sized dining hall.
I have noticed anti-blight citations tacked to Tom's front door, a door that doesn't keep any one out. Break-ins are averted by bar patrons who occupy the building during all night hours. The interior holds no valuables; the cash register is bolted to the building and the beer coolers are padlocked during off hours. The anti-blight citations are written with stiff fines, and the citations are costly tickets with a special administrative court to enforce the collection process. No amount of repair or handyman work could put Tom’s Tavern into alignment with the Detroit blight codes. Maybe a new Tom’s Tavern could be built on the site, with pictures of the old shack and memorabilia from the walls convincing long time patrons that no authenticity was lost. It would be quite the feat of historical engineering.
I remember at least two good nights in Tom’s cozy tavern. Once, I had no cash, and there was not a single ATM to be found close to Tom's. Yet, I was curious, so I went in to see the interior. A patron who had departed didn't take his uncorked wine bottles away. So I borrowed a corkscrew from the bartender and he gave me a glass and I drank from those bottles most of the night, sharing the decent Cabernet with all takers.
When I ran out of leftover wine, the bartender began setting up Rolling Rocks for me to drink. He didn't care if I had money or not. I could catch him up when I came in flush. I have heard that the priest who holds mass at a cathedral east on Seven Mile, connected to the University of Detroit, has enjoined parishioners to join him after services at Tom's Tavern. Yet, I doubted Catholic charity was at work here, and yet the bartender kept putting up Rolling Rocks for me to drink.
The kitchen was not open the night I first visited, but the kitchen table was covered with pots and pans and dishes. A woman dropped in to visit, and after enjoying two Rolling Rocks, she rolled up her sleeves, washed all dishes and pots, sanitized all the food preparation surfaces and mopped the floor. It wasn't her job and she wouldn't accept any assistance. When two in the morning arrived, no one was turned out of the tavern. The bartender explained to me that the local precinct didn't check to see when Tom's closed. Thus, Tom's closed when the bartender got tired and wanted to go home.
A local artist had hung his latest oil paintings on the east wall, nifty bar scenes taken from turn-of-the-century Paris, and these were displayed without names or prices. I had missed the grand opening of the show by a few days. It wasn’t too easy to see all the pictures. The floor had a decided slant, and several bar stools were cut with shorter legs and slanted feet in order to stand up straight and stable.
The second night I drank at Tom’s, I had a wallet with greenbacks, but the bartender was generous still. When dawn started rising through the main window with a wrought iron grill, the bartender poured each patron remaining a shot of Jack Daniels, and the crowd hadn't dwindled. She announced that we could have this free shot if we agreed to go home immediately. It was a deal and we sealed it with a gulp. We all toasted our all-nighter and made our way home in the dawn the safest way we could.
Wine Readers, Wine's the Drink, for Wandering Wilbo Hates to Think!
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