Roma Cafe
I’m sitting at the bar in Roma Cafe. This restaurant is one of the last of the greats left in the city. Located in Detroit’s Eastern Market, it’s a classic with really superb food and an excellent all-male wait-staff. Earlier, when I stepped in, I was surprised to see a few familiar faces in the dining-room. It’s a good sign that there are still some of us left on the street, and for a minute there it was like stepping back a couple of decades. I suppose I’m feeling sentimental … I’m in town for the funeral of an old friend. In fact, I used to meet him at this very bar, and it looks the same as it did then.
What’s missing are the boys … the comradery of friends, the business deals and action. This town used to breed money, and now it’s busted out and empty. I’m recalling my dead buddy, remembering the envelopes he used to slip me. He wasn’t the only customer I used to meet at Roma’s, but in view of his recent parting, he’s the one I’m thinking about. I remember sitting at this bar with him on the day Ronald Reagan was shot, both of us watching the drama unfold on television.
I miss the old days. I miss my friend. And I miss those envelopes he used to give me. Like they say, “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.”
