In 2010, my brother and I made the trek out to Detroit and had what I remember being a satisfying, if largely meat-centric, meal. Returning two-and-a-half years later woefully underdressed–particularly in contradistinction to my dapper dining companion–foremost among my hankerings were the fried Brussels sprouts and double-cut smoked pork chop. And while those two items remain delicious, it was the middling offerings that bookended our dinner that render a third visit improbable.
An unremarkable charcuterie platter returned to the kitchen unfinished. And when it came time to order dessert, that most foolish of phrases sprung from our server’s lips: “excellent choice.” How incorrect she was, as we were met with a meringue-dominated Meyer lemon mousse and an irritatingly insipid mug of chocolate-covered pretzels with beer ice cream. One modest bite of the latter was enough to convince me to retire my spoon for the evening.