The Promise of Spring Rain

Rain on blossom by Maddy Hunt

“Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby”

— Langston Hughes, April Rain Song

I sat on the front steps of my 1925 bungalow, surveying the street lined with its brick houses and big trees. A precious little leather-bound notebook lay next to me, beckoning me to pen my thoughts and reflections. I was in a sentimental mood so I obliged, opening the book and thumbing the pages until I reached the first blank one. It was full of promise and so seemed the world around me.

On the surface, the street scene unfolded in typical Michigan May morning fashion. The tulips decorating my garden beds opened to meet the sky, the birds sang excitedly competing with the hum of a distant lawnmower, and my neighbor dutifully inspected the blooming buds in his flower boxes. As I tuned in though, I could sense the magic that hung suspended in the humid, warm air. It became apparent that everyone and everything was in open anticipation. It was going to rain and there was something lovely about the whisperings of the impending showers. A gentle breeze passed through the air like silk and carried a bounty of surprises for the discerning – soft floral fragrances; bees dancing together, having taken a short break from their work; and the suggestion of coolness that comes when wind touches wet. Everything carried a subtle moisture, as though trees, plants and bodies alike had sucked the dampness into themselves from the heavens. Or perhaps it was that the mist had swelled from an infinite Earth supply up and into the ethers instead. A blanket of clouds moved slowly across the sky providing a gray backdrop against the colors of spring, still vibrant even in the muted light of the sun; and I sat there taking it all in and doing my best to capture the uncapturable as the first drops hit my notebook pages.

I watched it all knowing that somehow my deep appreciation and willingness to be sensitive had helped to create the magic. I had connected, if only for a moment in time, to all that is and was gifted with the opportunity to be nourished alongside of everything else. There is a certain stillness just before spring rain, a pause before the release like the pause between breaths and in that brief but vast space, there is a promise. It is a promise of messes and mud pies and heartfelt tree hugging, and of tiny mirrors all along the sidewalk yearning to be disturbed by the rubber boots of laughing children, my own daughters among them. It is a promise of calm and contemplation invited by the pitter patter of rain on the roof and the beads of water left behind on the window, each small windows in and of themselves. It is a promise of care with each falling drop as it kisses the ground. It is the promise of love. Love, ever-present, Divine in its nature, gathering and pooling everything into itself until it is reflected everywhere, until one color is indistinguishable from the next, until all is blended and blurred and beautiful. “It is love,” my mud-covered 5-year-old reminded me. “Rain and love. That’s how the trees grow.”

Love in all things,

April Eileen

She Drinks Too: The Mystery of a Modern-Day Speakeasy

Part One: The Hunt

“Go through the back door and into the dark alley. Make a right and head toward the glowing light. You’ll see a door with snake coils on it. That’s the place.”

Um, yeah…because this is From Dusk Till Dawn and I’m George Clooney and he’s Quentin Tarantino and we’re walking into vampire headquarters. Right. My thoughts raced beneath a furrowed brow as my husband and I got directions to Bad Luck Bar – a fairly new and very opulent 1920’s inspired speakeasy in downtown Detroit.

Let me back up. I heard about Bad Luck Bar from my very cool pottery instructor. No, that is not an oxymoron and no, I am not talking about a 60-year-old, retired hippie that still smokes weed every now and then (medicinal, of course). Really, this dude is a 20-something hipster, bartender, and soon-to-be attorney with impeccable taste that just happens to make a mean coffee mug. He tells me I have to check out Bad Luck Bar and while the cocktails are ridiculously expensive, it is really worth it. He says nothing more.

Bad Luck Bar entrance and curtain reveal by Bad Luck Bar

Intrigued, I decide to venture out, dragging my skeptical husband along for the ride. We arrive at Bad Luck Bar, or rather, where Bad Luck Bar should be but quickly learn 1218 Griswold – the establishment’s purported address - does not exist (at least from a street view). Waze, you disappoint me. We drive, and then walk up and down Griswold several times without so much as a whiff of a spirit. Finally, we go into the coffee shop at 1220 defeated and ready to scrap the whole thing. But before we commence stress eating and drowning our sorrows in warm beverages, I decide to give it one more shot. Timidly, I walk up to the barista and ask, “Have you ever heard of Bad Luck Bar?” to which he answers, “Of course.” “Can you please tell us where it is?” I plead.

Ten minutes later, I found myself in a dark and sumptuous room, looking at the cat-eye framed peepers of our very detached, red-lipped hostess. She pulled back a velvet curtain to reveal an extravagant bar that appeared to be plated in gold and owned by Gatsby himself. It was situated amongst a few tables, dim lights, and baroque-like detail to achieve an intimate setting.

Part Two: Inside the Drinkery

“In the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was set up, and stocked with gins and liquors and with cordials so long forgotten that most of his female guests were too young to know one from another.” F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Yep, the gold Gatsby bar was certainly stocked and I was certainly too young to know about much of its merchandise, most notably The Admiral. This $80 shot of rum - served neat, on the rocks, or as a daiquiri depending on the whims of the patron - is from the UK’s rationing to the British Royal Navy in 1952. As I said, I’m clearly too young to appreciate that kind of rarity. For that expense, I wanted the rum to talk and tell me about drunken British sailors, life on a navy ship, and what it’s like to be mixed with Coke. I skipped the rum and opted for The Empress – a lovely little libation made with vodka, pineapple-honey shrub, and honeybush tea soda and served in a pretty flute with lavender-infused pop rocks around the rim! So. Stinking. Cute. My husband ordered Death and honestly, I have no idea what’s in it but the thing arrived at our table on fire. Really…full-on flames. Since then, I’ve also had Past Lives, which was excellent and The Tower, which, because of a chamomile tea bag that is continuously flavoring the cocktail, tastes very different at the last sip then it did at the first. Points for creativity.

Bad Luck Bar and cocktails by Bad Luck Bar

So what’s the verdict? Bad Luck Bar is serving up an experience, not mere booze. The masterminds behind the scenes have taken time and care to wow their guests and everything is curated to that end – from the speakeasy’s mysterious location, to the way the bar is revealed, to the drinks themselves. Is it worth it? Absolutely. Go and enjoy something from the menu at least once, and if you’re on a tight budget, keep in mind they have a full bar that serves just about anything.

Sound worth it to you? Let me know your thoughts. I’d also love to know if you would spring for the rum. :-)

UPDATE: Not surprisingly, the menu has been refreshed since I originally shared this post and, because I clearly have a thing for pop rocks, I’d recommend trying The Alchemist. It’s a vodka cocktail served with house made black tea-dried fruit soda (that’s boogie for pop rocks) on top. Also, the Admiral is now $120 and that’s all I’m going to say about that.

Love in all things,

April Eileen

She Dines: A Taste of Paris in Detroit

“She wanted to die, but she also wanted to live in Paris.”

— Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary

Not sure about the whole dying thing but I certainly would love to live in Paris! If Paris were a person, it would be a she - an exquisite she - a woman of effortless style, cultural awareness, and an ability to create sheer loveliness. She is clearly the esteemed patroness of the latest eatery in Detroit’s West Village - La Bohéme. This cutie pie of a café is perfect for getting my French fix until Madame Paris and I are officially besties. 

Salad, china, pastry and art gallery at La Bohéme by April Eileen

I had the pleasure of meeting one of the proprieters, Jean Jeannot, when I stumbled in after grabbing tea from Sister Pie. “La Bo-em!” I exclaimed. “I’ve been meaning to get here!” Jean congratulated me on my near-perfect pronunciation before telling me the café was closed and directing me to the hours on the door. I grimaced but was delighted. I hadn’t been rebuffed by a Frenchman since I asked for an English menu at a restaurant in the 5th arrondissement. #menudenied #figureditout #foodwasfantastic   

What kind of foodie would I be if I let a little thing like shop hours stop me from partaking of la nourriture? I vowed to return and return I did and this time, I didn’t even have to use my 2nd grade French speaking skills to have a great experience. I soon noticed all of the details that make La Bohéme so quaint and charming - flower-shaped smoked salmon, ornate teacups and silverware, and two clocks on the wall to ensure guests know the time in Detroit and Paris. They have a light breakfast and lunch menu with yummy French fare, a solid tea selection, and several pretty pastries (I couldn’t resist the Marie Antoinette). Also, if you take a peek downstairs, there is a small gallery (surprise!) that’s currently displaying Emmy Perryman’s photography. 

La Bohéme’s got a little something for everyone so if you’re ever in Detroit and up for a little taste of Paris, check it out and tell me what you think.

UPDATE: Sadly, La Bohéme is no more. C’est dommage. Mark Kurlyandchik of the Detroit Free Press has speculated that the notoriously competitive restaurant market may have reached a saturation point in Detroit. Over the past several years, fellow foodies have watched with delight as the Detroit food scene expanded at light speed. Unfortunately, many restaurants have not been able to sustain themselves in the frenzy and have had to close their doors. Perhaps this is the story of La Bohéme. Regardless, it will join other formidable establishments in the annals of Detroit’s restaurant renaissance history.

Love in all things,

April Eileen