Waterfront Bar & Grille is Sunk

Get it? I was a lifeguard for 87 years, so I know what I'm talking about.

Let me back up. In February, a bestie of mine got married in Belize. She knew that she needed to have a party here for people to shower her with Le Creuset and serving platters (the world's most popular wedding gifts, I think), and she had her little heart set on the Waterfront Bar & Grille at the City Market. I don't know why. But she did.

She booked the place for a night in March. She knew it would still be chilly, so she arranged for a tent and we hoped for the best. The proposed menu was bangin- it would be a pig roast. The pig would come from an Amish farmer, they would throw some whole chickens on the grill, there would be macaroni and cheese, roasted potatoes, and other things that I would like to rub all over my body.

This little lady is a little. . . high-strung? Type A? and she understandably wanted to communicate with management to make sure that everything was set as the date of the party approached.

She called. She emailed. She went into the joint in person. She was given the run around time and again.

Anyway, it all worked out and the party was beautiful. The food was better that I expected and I was shoving pork into my mouth like I hadn't eaten in a week. This girl is also an incredible baker and she decided to make her own cakes to feed to guests. She made 4 different 3-layer cakes and set them out for dessert. Guests were also invited to meander over to Iorio's to have some gelato with their cake. Obviously, I had several servings of everything.

It was also her dad's 60th birthday.

Turned out, it was freezing that night. I buried my cold heart in pork and cake and stuck it out, although I did spend several hours inside. At the end of the night, there was curiously no food or cake left for the happy couple to take home. Since there were only about 50 guests, a Google search tells me that there should have been leftovers to feed another 25 people. But what do I know.

Fast-forward to present day, and another bestie of mine got married 3 weeks ago. Love is a many splendored thing and all, but the bride and I really had our sights set on the food. We had been discussing for weeks exactly what we would eat all weekend. For her rehearsal dinner she decided to go back to the Waterfront for a pig roast, since the groom's favorite bar is The Exchange and he wanted to bring all of his frat bros over there after the toasts were made.

Again, her many attempts to contact management were ignored. It was annoying. It was unprofessional. But the schedule was set and we chugged along. On the night of the rehearsal, rain was in the forecast. Again, there was a tent set up, and that tent got a workout. It poured rain. Staff decided that they would wait to set out food until the rain stopped (why? what the?)

The food was finally set out, and it was a let-down. I don't know what was different, but the quality was garbage compared to what it was before.

This wasn't my plate. My plate had 3 times as much meat.

Again, the bride had brought her own dessert- 7 various pies from Sweetie-Licious. Everyone ate dinner and pie and started chatting and staring at the beautiful couple with stars in their eyes. Out of the corner of my starry eye, I saw a man come outside from where he was perched inside on a bar stool, fill a plate with pie, and go back inside. I looked at the staff member who was manning the rehearsal dinner and expected a reaction from him- expected him to go inside and, I don't know, tell patrons that it was a private party and the food wasn't for them. Instead, he looked me in the eye and shrugged.

I told some friends what had happened, and that I wasn't happy with how this evening was playing out. An hour later, the same man (it's not clear if he was an employee or not) came out and started loading up a plate with leftovers. My friend stopped him, telling him that the food wasn't for him. He mumbled some excuse- he knew it wasn't for him, he wasn't taking it, he was just helping pack up.

Whatever. I won't recommend to anyone else that they have an event at the Waterfront or even go there for a meal. Their everyday food is nothing special and the staff members are inconsiderate and rude. If you're in the City Market and it's dinnertime, head across the street to the Knight Cap. Hell, Taco 911 might even be a better bet (I don't know, I haven't been there yet.) I'm sorry to say it, but avoid the Waterfront at all costs.

SC- fun's over

I have become the world's worst tourist. Back when I first started traveling at the tender age of 20 (jeez my skin was amazing) I used to photograph everything. Eiffel Tower? 98 pictures of it. University of Kansas welcome sign? 56 photos. Hell, crazy homeless man singing at the top of his lungs on a street corner in Switzerland? I took a video.

Somewhere I lost this. Sure, I will snap pictures of my food, of my fingernails, and of signs that are particularly funny, but they're all on my iPhone. When I drive past a monument, I rarely give it much more thought than a 5-second cursory examination. I gotta get better at this. This is my one picture of Charleston-

I know. Stupid. I will work on this.

After I ate my body weight in oysters, loving every second of it, the next day we went to a little golf tournament. Ok, it was a bigger deal than "a little golf tournament." Even I, golf idiot, can appreciate that. We went to this-

 I KNOW. I sent that photo to two of my best golfer friends. They were incredulous. I felt like a big shot. (PS that particular J Crew lorelei in the background took a beating that day. It was alternately covered in sweat and in rain. Sorry, little buddy.)

I'm into life experiences. I like to do things that I wouldn't normally do if left to my own devices. I love to people-watch and talk to everyone that I see. I was happy to go to this golf tournament, although what I know about the sport of golf you could literally write on the back of a business card.

Guys, Southerners can dress. Seriously, Michiganders, what are we doing with ourselves? This is more directed to my Yankee men, since my girlfriends know how to look cute. Take a gander at your closet this afternoon. If you see any jorts, cargo shorts, or solid-color tshirts, and you wear these items with regularity, you've got a problem. Google "Southern Men Style" and take some inspiration.

Of course, everybody makes mistakes.

Get serious. You're so gross.

The golf was on an island, and it was more humid than anything I have ever experienced in my life. I tried to keep my mouth shut. At some point Crazy came out and it became apparent that I had to go inside, on the double, or I was going to derail. I tried to collect myself.

The rest of my time in the South was punctuated with a lot of fast food (yes, I ate a Chick Fil A. No, I absolutely do not support their ridiculous outspoken bigoted views on gay marriage), some sushi, some okra, and a walk through Greenville, where I took a video of a waterfall.

Unfortunately for all of us, I have remedial computer skills.

The Palmetto State is my Oyster

After breakfast in Greenville, I experienced Pickens and Woodruff before making it to Columbia, home of the University of South Carolina. The campus is lovely. The football stadium is immense. My stomach was growling and my hunger was making me quickly turn the corner into behaving like a demonic troll.

I ate a few emergency almonds from my purse, which afforded me a extra 20 minutes of human being behavior. The clock was running out.

We went to a place called Rockaways. There was no sign outside. Honestly, I like that sort of place- it makes me feel like I have an inside scoop that nobody else has. Makes me feel like I have my own reality show (incidentally, I would LOVE my own reality show. Somebody please make one for me.)

A pimento cheeseburger was the plan, since the only bite of pimento cheese I had ever had in life was a few weeks ago at The Publican in Chicago. I was handed a menu and noticed a hand-written sign shoved down the front of it- "Oysters, 50 cents each."

50 cents. Two for a dollar. Do you know how much oysters cost in Lansing, Michigan? THREE DOLLARS EACH.

I asked if this was a true advertisement, or if the menu was a relic. I didn't know what to think. I was starving and I couldn't determine whether or not this was actually happening. Guys, it was true. They were 50 cents each. We got a dozen, and we got a pimento cheeseburger, and we got pimento cheese fries.

That's a little ramekin of jalapenos on the side. I like it.

The cheese was a little much for me. I expected it to be somehow- chunkier? This cheese was creamy. I've been told that mayonnaise is mixed into it. A miracle occurred and I haven't gained 78 pounds in the last week, and I'm not really sure how that happened. I did my best to outgrow all of my clothing.

The real showstopper was these little guys. I ate almost all of them. There was no mingonette, which I thought was odd. But I found some later in the day, when I ate another dozen oysters.

I wonder if pimento cheese fries are typically crinkle-cut? Probably. Makes sense that crinkle-cut fries would hold more cheese, right? Again with the science. Maybe that will be my next degree.

As we continued on our statewide tour, we got back in the car (me with my personality fully restored and acting as nice as I can be expected to) and drove to Charleston. When we got there, we went to Pearlz. I, being the pig that I am, ate more oysters.

I was full and happy and could be my usual charming Yankee self. I proceeded to talk to people from Ann Arbor, in Charleston on vacation (she was a lawyer), a woman with a Spartan coozie on her beer who is from Grand Rapids and lives in SC, and then it got really real and the singer at the next bar we went to announced that was going to play a song by a group from Detroit, since it's "so close" to his hometown.

His hometown? Mason. I used to swim dual meets in their pool. I was tickled. Right after he and I discovered our Mitten State commonality, two middle-aged men in the crowd stood up and announced that the live in Bath, just north of Lansing. Ahh, life. You get me every time. 

The Palmetto State

Last week I went to South Carolina to visit a friend from law school. His wardrobe includes bow ties, Croakies, suspenders, and boat shoes. I like everything that is on that list.

Annoyingly, I had to fly from Grand Rapids to Detroit to Charlotte. Flying from Grand Rapids to Detroit is obviously a super great use of my time and the world's nonrenewable resources. (Is "nonrenewable resources" applicable here? I'm trying to sound like I know something about science. Just call me Bill Nye.)

Anyway, the Detroit plane was seriously delayed. Like 2.5 hours delayed. But I fancy myself a great traveler and I made the best of it. I busted out a book that my good girlfriend had lent me and dove in.

What book, you ask?

Don't tell Grandma Johnson. Actually, don't tell GRANDPA Johnson.

You guys, I know. I'm embarrassing. But look at that great yellow purse on the floor. She's a beaut, Clark. (By the way, this book is totally demented. I'm grossed out with myself for reading it. The second one isn't nearly as difficult to justify, since it's a trilogy and by God I've got to finish what I started.)

I eventually got to SC. It was super late. I fell into a mini coma and awoke the next morning, fresh as a daisy.

That's a lie. I got no sleep and SC is BRUTALLY hot and humid, but I'm trying to have a positive attitude. 

My tour guide was horrified that I had never been to a Waffle House. I had to remind him that, as a Yankee (yes, they actually use the word "Yankee" to refer to people who live in the North) I've rarely ever SEEN a Waffle House. The next morning we went there. I ate this.

On the left is a waffle. I know, good thing I have an education worth 150k, right? It has chocolate chips and peanut butter chips on it. I really do like a sweet breakfast.

On the right are hashbrowns with jalapenos. After I made my order I was informed that my chosen combination was disgusting and I should be ashamed of myself. In looking back, that's fair enough. This is a totally gross combination. I was nervous, I was in the South and was scared that my sassiness was going to get me smacked, and I hadn't had any coffee because apparently there are still people in the world who don't have a coffee pot in their house. Those reasons I offer in my own defense.

The Waffle House employees were lovely. They were tickled that it was my first visit and they gave me a hat. I liked that you can sit right up at the counter and watch them prepare your food. Right before we left, two ladies came in to pick up a to-go order and began speaking French to each other. I immediately started listening to their conversation and was two seconds from jumping in.

I like attention.

Spoon Cap

Sometimes, in between trips to see friends, I bloom where I'm planted. I recently took three trips in rapid succession- Chicago, Iowa, and South Carolina- but while I was home I found the time to eat two dinners at my longtime favorite Soup Spoon.

You know I love it. 

The first dinner was the evening I got back from Iowa. It was a hot day and I jumped in the shower immediately after jumping out of my car and throwing a box of doughnuts at my mama and her bff, whom we lovingly refer to as my "Real Mother."

Why? Because she likes purses, and shoes, and makeup, just like I do. My actual biological mother can't be bothered.

Anyway, I put on one of my favorite J Crew lorelei dresses and went to meet some of my favorite fellow former Junior League of Lansing board members for our monthly dinner. We always go to the Soup Spoon, this was no exception.

While perusing the menu for the zillionth time, I realized that, embarrassingly, I had never ordered the salmon entree. This is strange. I am known for ordering the salmon more often than not. It came with potatoes dauphinoise, which is a sort of cheesy, creamy, melty potato gratin. We all know that I'm not a cheesehead, but I do love a good potato gratin.

The salmon was so slammin that I ordered it the next week as well. I don't know how it escaped my consciousness for so long, but I regret the error.

A few days ago I had dinner at the Knight Cap, my second favorite local restaurant. I hadn't been there since celebrating my favorite (shh) cousin's graduation from Michigan State in May, when I had some disappointing tournedos. I figured that I would stop trying to branch out when I already know what I like at the Knight Cap and have never been disappointed by it.

I made my triumphant return to the petit filet. Rare. Vegetables on the side. Starter was a cup of the chicken gumbo, which comes overflowing and stuffed with a chunk of cornbread. It is four-alarm spicy, so don't order it if you can't take the heat.

The vegetables were particularly great. Sliced zucchini, yellow squash, purple onions and cherry tomatoes, cooked to retain a snap. I love a vegetable with a snap. Don't give me any mush, please.

Fun fact- I don't care for sauce on meat generally. If I'm indulging in a steak, I want to taste the flavor of the steak (with a little added salt, maybe.) I will occasionally dip the tines of my fork into the Bearnaise, but I could happily do without.

Sadly, the desserts at the Knight Cap are sorry. Honestly not worth the calories. I know how teensy the kitchen is and I'm not mad at them for having awful desserts, but I would be happy to bake something and bring it in for them to serve. Not kidding.

On another note, I heard that my beloved KC is struggling. Economic downturn, unsophisticated diners, general sloppiness of downtown Lansing. Who knows. If it's true, I'm sad. The next time you're in the market for a fine meal (lunch OR dinner), think of them. It's a tiny, quirky, wonderful restaurant. Let's help them maintain their place in Lansing lore.

Is this heaven? No, it's Iowa.

A few weeks ago I decided to push my Midwest tour into full swing and head to Iowa the morning after coming back from Chicago. I have a bestie in La Porte City, IA, and she has two little munchkins I've never seen before. So last Monday I threw a bunch of stuff into my car, grabbed my bursting-at-the-seams book of CDs so I could take a trip down memory lane, and drove myself to The Hawkeye State.

You don't want to know what I ate in the car on the way there. Oh, you insist? It's gross, but I will tell you. I stopped in Kalamazoo to see some of my favorite Johnsons and ate a Wendy's grilled chicken sandwich. What is that disgusting sauce on there? Steer clear of this sandwich unless you hate yourself.

En route I had a lime Refresher at Starbucks (why? I don't know), a Cantina Bowl from Taco Bell, AND a vanilla ice cream cone from McDonald's. Not only did I throw caution to the wind, but I actually threw myself a little bit closer to ending up on The Biggest Loser.

I'm also not particularly proud of the musical selections I made when I was still purchasing CDs. I have some truly atrocious music. Ashlee Simpson. Jock Jams. Nelly's entire discology, including both "Sweat" AND "Suit."

Actually, I'm going to stand by the Nelly tunes. I still know every word and I still love him.

The day after my arrival, Tayls and I packed up the two kiddos and headed to Cedar Falls for lunch. After eating super healthy stuff like a breaded buffalo chicken sandwich and beer-battered french fries, we topped it off with a trip to Scratch Cupcakery.

I wanted the Peanut Butter Cup, but Tayls is allergic to peanuts. Alas, we went with a Vanilla Chocolate and an Oh Happy Day. She also bought a half-dozen more, so I could continue along my path to total obesity.

These cupcakes were better than the ones I had at Sprinkles in Chicago. And pals, this is in IOWA. Who woulda thunk?

Scratch also has a gelato counter. I tasted the basil gelato, because I couldn't resist, but I wish I wouldn't have. It was covered in ice crystals and the flavor was awful. The girl behind the counter told me that they don't make it themselves, and I think they probably shouldn't be selling it either.

Maybe I'm not holding them to a fair standard, because I've been completely spoiled by Iorio's in the Lansing City Market.

I did go for a run the next morning. We went to Zumba the same day. Is anyone into Zumba? I didn't love it.

Before I Nelly-d myself back to Michigan on Thursday, I stopped at the La Porte City Bakery just down the street from Taylor's beautiful old farmhouse. While running by the place the previous morning I had been lured in my the aromas, and I stood in the doorway in my sweat-drenched running clothes until someone paid attention to me. That someone was a little old man- the owner- and I hit him with a thousand questions.

Do you make everything here? Yes.
Is it all made fresh daily? Yes.
Can I move into your kitchen? I have my own neon LL Bean monogrammed sleeping bag (not kidding)? No, you weirdo.

I bought a dozen doughnuts. I knew that I would be getting back to Lansing around 4pm that day and wanted to bring them back to my friendsicles. Truth be told, they only had 9 to choose from. I scarfed 3 of them somewhere around South Bend.

You made my 8-hour drive so much more enjoyable, you gorgeous little babies.

We also ate some delicious guac made by Mr. Taylor, some errant Goldfish crackers thrown on the floor by two-year-old John, and Trixie's famous tuna salad. I love Iowa. Well, maybe it's just my friend that I love. Either way, the La Porte City Bakery will be getting more of my business on the regular.

Chicago Brunch. Best meal of 2012.

That's not an overstatement.

For years, I have been reading about The Publican. I have literally had that website bookmarked for years. When we decided to Sunday Brunch before heading back to Michigan, I knew where I wanted to go. We got a reservation and I was quiet with excitement as our cab made it way across town, laden with our huge Vera Bradley duffel bags (I like the bright colors, ok?) and huge asses after gorging ourselves on hot dogs and cupcakes (see below.)

We got to The Publican quite a bit early for our 11:00 reservation and waited at a standing bar where we could stare at the plates being served to other diners. We ordered coffees, mimosas, and after I started shouting out things like "the pork rinds are supposed to be incredible!", we ordered the pork rinds. Misstep. I don't know if I'm missing something, but these things were like giant, super-crunchy Cheetos. We also ordered the pub pretzel with pimento cheese, because Miss Kitty went to school in the South and couldn't resist.

I had never had pimento cheese. It was good. I would eat it again.

The rest of our party rolled in and we were seated at long tables shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers. I love it, so I can stare at their food, their baby, their eyeglasses, whatever catches my eye. And I can listen to their jacked-up conversations, like the dapper man next to me telling his son that Obama is going to blow the general election by making voters think that if they don't vote for him, they're racist.

Ok. OR MAYBE THEY ARE REALLY RACIST.

I couldn't concentrate on sending hate vibes his way, though, because I was too excited with the prospect of my red wine poached eggs. I love eggs. No, I LOVE them. You don't understand. And I never order them poached, because when I'm confronted with an overly-poached yolk, I lose my patience. I knew that they would be perfect at The Publican, and I was dying.

Look at those little beauties. Atop grilled bread, with hollandaise (so lemony) and alongside a little salad and prosciutto. I don't think I have ever before willed my stomach to stretch in order to accommodate the last bites of my meal. This was, without a doubt, the best meal I have had this year. If you find yourself at The Publican, order this. If you know how to make this, come to my house. I will make you some cupcakes, serve as surrogate, whatever you want.

I also ordered the ricotta and zucchini bread, which that week came with mint, blackberries, and honey, for sharesies with the table. The texture was awesome- it was light and sweet and you could really taste the honey.

I slathered the ricotta like whipped cream.

I drove around Chicago a few days after this trip and looked up The Publican's hours so I could try to sneak in a quick lunch. Sadly, my schedule wouldn't allow for it. Mark my words, I will return before the end of the year. And I will bring my Thanksgiving eating pants.