When I showed up for my shift as the maintenance man at American Coney Island last week, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me.
There were a half-dozen TV cameras jostling for an interior shot of neighboring Lafayette Coney Island, tripping over themselves like so many pigeons to the bread crumb.
A sign taped to its door read:
CLOSED FOR REMODLING
The misspelling confused me.
“Closed for mold?” I asked Joey, the bun man, who was carting steamer buns into American. He holds the account for both restaurants.
“Not mold,” he said with a knowing little smile. “Rats… again…”
The news had gone around the world the evening before, and I—apparently—was the last man to hear of it. The Detroit Health Department had cracked down and closed Lafayette for the second time in two years. No dogs. No fries. No dice.
I wasn’t surprised. As the part-time handyman at American, there are a few things I can tell you about the rival establishments. Most important is that although they are direct neighbors, they do not share a wall. Each joint has its own separate, double-bricked wall, with a slight gap in between that cannot be seen from street level. One of my responsibilities is to prevent the problems at Lafayette from seeping through the mortar.
The secret ingredients to vermin control are devilishly simple: trash cans, a professional exterminator, patching holes with hydraulic cement, and a mop.
Maintenance, in short.
City inspectors came to American Coney Island as well. They found no problems, I am happy to report. No pests. Clean bathrooms. Coolers at 40 degrees Fahrenheit.
I watched with bemusement as the news trucks came and went this last week. Reporters love nothing more than an easy story of another person’s misery.
I, too, am a reporter. That’s how I came to work at American a half-dozen years ago. When I walked away from Fox 2 News to work as an independent reporter, I realized that I no longer had health insurance. As a lifetime corporate tool, I never had to think about having it. Now, here I was, wading in the pool of the unwashed masses, worrying how to pay for a dentist. Private insurance was out of reach. Obamacare was unaffordable.
I asked Grace Keros, the third-generation owner of American Coney Island, if the restaurant could use a guy with a few skills. American Coney not only has trash cans; it also offers healthcare to employees.
As so, there you might find me working on the foundation, or the tiles or the drains or the windows or painting the place. People like to see a reporter actually working for a living, I have found. Makes them believe he actually knows what he’s talking about when he reports on their troubles and dreams.
The work is earthy but it’s honest. And it helps the reporting. Instead of combing the city for stories, the city comes to me. Kenny the paraplegic. Mary the politician. Frank the cop. Billy the demolition guy. John the ambassador. Maria the cleaning lady.
For example, the media reports how terrific the economy is. But working on the restaurant’s foundation, I can see from street level that is patently untrue. I can see that every cigarette has been smoked down to its butt. When times are good, people discard half-smoked cigarettes.
I’ve also learned that the two restaurants located downtown at the corners of Michigan Avenue and Lafayette Boulevard are more than places for a dog and a beer. They are, for many, a last connection to a city they have left. A city that is difficult and dangerous to navigate. Their umbilical.
And so, the Coney rivalry breeds a certain fanaticism. If you’re a true Detroiter—this thinking goes—then you know absolutely which is the better Coney Island and which to never set a foot in.
But now you know the truth.
As Joey the breadman walked into American, he took a long, exaggerated whiff through his mustache. “Ahhhh!” he exclaimed. “Reminds me of that old clean smell of a swimming pool.”
You can pick American. Or you can pick Lafayette. Either way, you’re still picking Detroit.
Charlie LeDuff is a reporter educated in public schools. Follow him on X @Charlieleduff.
