a question regarding each of two former Detroit restaurants
Is there anyone who might know the recipe for " Jean's Sauce Of The Islands"? It was a staple ingredient used at the Brothers Barbecue[[?) spots. I know of only two locations for this fine old business. One was on, I believe, Greenfield, and the other was downtown on E. Jefferson at St. Antoine[[?). They prepared some tasty offerings. One was the appealingly named "Boogaloo Sandwich". [[ I would also love to have -- at least 24 hours before I die -- the recipe for said sandwich.) The sauce, of which I spoke earlier, was also bottled and sold by them so that customers would be able to have it for use at home.
A final, unrelated request: has anyone any pictures of Cardinales[[?) Restaurant? Inside? Outside? Shots of the owners -- Antoinetta[[?) and Adolfo[[?) Cardinale. Anything that might bring on the stabbing pain of young life lost. Anything. I want to see it. And cry. What a place. Simply the best. The jukebox! The prurient bread sticks. The wine that Adolfo called "cold coffee" [[which he served in coffee cups). And that whole story. Oh, my. How splendidly old Detroit.
Omnibus reply to all including Gary, Gazhekwe, and EastsideAl
Some poorly organized thoughts regarding Brothers and Cardinale's restaurants:
About Jean's SOTI's, it wasn't thick coming from the bottle, as I recall. [[But I'm old as hell -- and all of this happened in the last century!) So because of this consistency point, I don't think it's going to turn out to have begun from someone's commercial offering; at least not a thick one. Also, it was sold at the restaurant -- presumably for a price the average consumer would think reasonable. This price would also have to be found reasonable from the restaurant's standpoint given their cost of materials, labor, bottling, and labeling. So it doesn't make sense to me that they would start with the already profit-laden product of another's devising. And, heck, they're cooks. Food preparers. But who knows what may have been done to reduce the manual labor aspect of all this. Food preparation is damn hard work. Maybe they did begin from someone's else's sauce. I just don't think it's likely. They struck me as being thrifty -- in a good way. [[Of course, they certainly were influenced by the cooking of others -- maybe even to the extent of lifting the entire recipe, but I choose to think otherwise. Heck, this is my past we're talking about here.)
And now that we know Jean's last name, we may yet come up with the cook herself. I do remember that she was, I believe, the wife-owner of the
husband-owner. [[Lovely post Gazhekwe.) Some details: the onions and green pepper were, I think, cooked with the meat. The bread was a small, loaf-type affair -- of course, split along one side, from end to end. It was then wrapped in deli paper, if that's the term.
About Cardinale's Restaurant, I may be misspelling it. It may be Cardinali's.
Someone will know. This fine establishment is legendary. EastsideAl, it was on Grandy just north of Gratiot, if we take Gratiot to be an east-west street.
At this wonderful spot, at the end of a packed-house night which might have seen something like three diners filling each seat -- from the earliest arrivals till the latest hangers-on -- Antoinetta would come out of the kitchen into an area behind an old unused bar that probably served as storage and a butler's
pantry-arrangement for the front-of-house needs. She was a smallish woman with an impish face. She looked exhausted. She was soaked. She looked at the room full of people still eating the last of the dishes that we had seen her making throughout the long evening. [[We could look into the kitchen through an opening of some three feet by two feet.) She was seldom out of view. And she never stopped moving. And this went on for maybe six hours. Six days a week. Lunch and dinner.
When she stepped out of the kitchen at night's end, she would be smiling self-consciously. And she continued to do so -- smiling, blowing her hair from her face, and looking as if she might fall over. Table after table would stop talking and turn to acknowledge her.
Antoinetta, at these moments, tired, relieved, and clearly happy, had a further look about her though that always baffled me. Now, when I think of her standing there, it seems to me she was saying, "There is one thing that no one else can do. No one else can prepare these dishes that kill, absolutely kill you, on the first bite."
One lunch, I was there with a party of six or seven people, including several who hadn't been there before. I handed a forkfull of my dinner to one of these newcomers from several seats away. She took it and turned back to someone beside her as she put the fettuccine in her mouth. She turned back to me in a perfectly unintended double-take. I was watching her, waiting for her to taste it. Did I know what her reaction would be? I don't know. But I'll never forget it. That dish killed me on first tasting, week in and week out for years.
It breaks my heart that I never once did more than wave or smile or blow Antoinetta a kiss on the nights -- Fridays, Saturdays -- when she died a little in that kitchen. I don't know exactly what I wish I had done. But I know what I should do now. I love you, Antoinetta.
Omnibus reply to all including Gary, Gazhekwe, and EastsideAl
Some poorly organized thoughts regarding Brothers and Cardinale's restaurants:
About Jean's SOTI's, it wasn't thick coming from the bottle, as I recall. [[But I'm old as hell -- and all of this happened in the last century!) So because of this consistency point, I don't think it's going to turn out to have begun from someone's commercial offering; at least not a thick one. Also, it was sold at the restaurant -- presumably for a price the average consumer would think reasonable. This price would also have to be found reasonable from the restaurant's standpoint given their cost of materials, labor, bottling, and labeling. So it doesn't make sense to me that they would start with the already profit-laden product of another's devising. And, heck, they're cooks. Food preparers. But who knows what may have been done to reduce the manual labor aspect of all this. Food preparation is damn hard work. Maybe they did begin from someone's else's sauce. I just don't think it's likely. They struck me as being thrifty -- in a good way. [[Of course, they certainly were influenced by the cooking of others -- maybe even to the extent of lifting the entire recipe, but I choose to think otherwise. Heck, this is my past we're talking about here.)
And now that we know Jean's last name, we may yet come up with the cook herself. I do remember that she was, I believe, the wife-owner of the
husband-owner. [[Lovely post Gazhekwe.) Some details: the onions and green pepper were, I think, cooked with the meat. The bread was a small, loaf-type affair -- of course, split along one side, from end to end. It was then wrapped in deli paper, if that's the term.
About Cardinale's Restaurant, I may be misspelling it. It may be Cardinali's.
Someone will know. This fine establishment is legendary. EastsideAl, it was on Grandy just north of Gratiot, if we take Gratiot to be an east-west street.
At this wonderful spot, at the end of a packed-house night which might have seen something like three diners filling each seat -- from the earliest arrivals till the latest hangers-on -- Antoinetta would come out of the kitchen into an area behind an old unused bar that probably served as storage and a butler's
pantry-arrangement for the front-of-house needs. She was a smallish woman with an impish face. She looked exhausted. She was soaked. She looked at the room full of people still eating the last of the dishes that we had seen her making throughout the long evening. [[We could look into the kitchen through an opening of some three feet by two feet.) She was seldom out of view. And she never stopped moving. And this went on for maybe six hours. Six days a week. Lunch and dinner.
When she stepped out of the kitchen at night's end, she would be smiling self-consciously. And she continued to do so -- smiling, blowing her hair from her face, and looking as if she might fall over. Table after table would stop talking and turn to acknowledge her.
Antoinetta, at these moments, tired, relieved, and clearly happy, had a further look about her though that always baffled me. Now, when I think of her standing there, it seems to me she was saying, "There is one thing that no one else can do. No one else can prepare these dishes that kill, absolutely kill you, on the first bite."
One lunch, I was there with a party of six or seven people, including several who hadn't been there before. I handed a forkfull of my dinner to one of these newcomers from several seats away. She took it and turned back to someone beside her as she put the fettuccine in her mouth. She turned back to me in a perfectly unintended double-take. I was watching her, waiting for her to taste it. Did I know what her reaction would be? I don't know. But I'll never forget it. That dish killed me on first tasting, week in and week out for years.
It breaks my heart that I never once did more than wave or smile or blow Antoinetta a kiss on the nights -- Fridays, Saturdays -- when she died a little in that kitchen. I don't know exactly what I wish I had done. But I know what I should do now. I love you, Antoinetta.
