So I thought I’d write a few words in praise of Rose’s Fine Food. I actually heard about it a long time ago. But then I forgot about it until the Washington Post mentioned it as a cool, hip place to go.
Being the latte-sippin’, skinny jean wearin’ lemming that I undoubtedly and unashamedly am, I immediately headed right over.
You can forgive me for neglecting Rose’s. It’s claim to fame, besides it’s very good food, is it’s unexpected location on a somewhat forlorn stretch of Jefferson Avenue, Detroit’s main riverside drag. That there’s a restaurant there isn’t too surprising. That there’s a trendy urban eatery there, owned by two women, is – however – a tad surprising.
But when you think about it, it makes sense. It allows Rose’s to feed off of the foodie craze of Detroit while still standing out in a way it wouldn’t in Corktown or Midtown.
As long as schmucks like me remember that it exists.
Though that may not be a problem forever. West Village is only a half mile away and is seeing a major resurgence, spearheaded by Detroit Vegan Soul, Craft Work, and Brix Wine & Charcuterie Boutique. Grosse Pointe Park’s curious little downtown area is about two miles in the other direction. Between Rose’s and Grosse Pointe Park, you’ve got the old Jefferson Chalmer commercial district, ripe for gentrification. And the famous Pewabic ceramic studio is practically right next door.
If anything, if you’re the sort that sees the glass half full, the people running Rose’s might just be crazy like a fox, ahead of the curve by a good five or ten years.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Who knows what they really think?
This all boring, meaningless conjecture.
More importantly: What’s the vibe like at Rose’s? How’s the food? You know, that stuff.
Well, I’ll start by remarking on how perfectly Rose’s interior reflects its quirky setting. Think classic diner Americana meets Ikea meets a single-wide trailer, and you’ve got a good idea of what to expect when you walk into this squat little brick building. The big windows are nice touch, giving the place an airy, bright quality.
And the food. The food, man. I only went once, but I got the feeling that Rose’s cooks the way I would if I was actually a talented chef. It’s simple and beautiful.
I got the root down hash. With purple potatoes, billed on the menu as local. Yes, that’s right – for all I know, I may have been eating purple starches grown directly in the heart in the legendary, industrial Motor City.
We can only hope.
The “root vegetables” were served with a mustard dressing, some brilliantly poached eggs, greens, and gooey, gooey cheese (by request). The plating was sumptuous. This thing was hearty, show-stopping. It’s a hangover killer, a comfort food gone wild. Plus, the toast I got with? Fuh-get-abot-it. Thick and flavorful, it put any other diner’s excuse for toast to shame.
Check out Rose’s the next time you’re in Detroit. Your stomach will thank you, and you’ll thank me.