2B — Thursday, April 6, 2017
the b-side
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

Seventy years later, all 
roads lead to Fleetwood

The peculiar Ann Arbor diner is riddled with stories and history

THE MICHIGAN DAILY

Ann Arbor’s own Fleetwood Diner

“There’s an old payphone 

back here that doesn’t work,” 
said server Rob Bell to me one 
hazy afternoon, as I stopped 
by the restaurant where he 
worked. “One night this total 
crazy person was talking on 
it … one of our regulars dealt 
with it and went over there 
and hung up on the phone and 
the guy was like, ‘That’s really 
rude’ and (the regular) was 
like, ‘You gotta go man.’ ”

Welcome to the Fleetwood 

Diner.

Just 
hugging 
the 
edge 

of 
downtown 
Ann 
Arbor, 

Fleetwood 
squats 
at 
the 

corner of two intersecting 
streets, its brightly striped 
awning a beacon against the 
monochromatic 
pavement 

line. 
It 
promises 
food 

‘round the clock, a pair of 
the 
dirtiest 
bathrooms 
to 

ever 
grace 
mankind 
and, 

most importantly, a dining 
experience like no other.

The first time I visited 

Fleetwood, it was as a wide-
eyed freshman late one random 
Tuesday night. Eager to escape 
the confines of my residence 
hall, I grabbed the hand of 
my closest friend at the time 
— a girl whom I knew for all 
of three days — and marched 
us both resolutely toward the 
infamous diner. Situated so far 
away from Central Campus, it 
had almost seemed like a myth 
— the house that all the older 
kids in your neighborhood had 
sworn was haunted but nobody 
dared visit. When we passed 
underneath its flickering neon 
sign for the first time that 
night, I had half expected the 
inside of the diner to be filled 
with ghostly mist: hallowed 
ground 
nestled 
between 

railroad tracks and a tattoo 
parlor.

Instead, 
disturbingly 

normal 
fluorescent 
lights 

stabbed the corners of our 
eyes as we were hastily seated 
at a table in the corner. The 
menus haphazardly tossed in 
our general direction were 
lined with creases, various 
stains 
forming 
technicolor 

abstractions across the pages. 
Eager to play the role of 
beguiling tourist, we both 
ordered what Fleetwood is 
most acclaimed for: the Hippie 
Hash.

Our 
food 
arrived 
as 
a 

verifiable 
feast 
heaped 
on 

top of plates spiderwebbed 
with 
cracks. 
We 
worked 

through our meals in relative 
silence, engrossed in studying 
the 
multitude 
of 
stickers 

that 
embellished 
almost 

every available flat surface. 
Portraying everything from 
clean-cut business logos to 
elaborate illustrations, every 
decal was distinctive. In that 
moment, they seemed like 
fingerprints of a city that was 
still very much unknown to me. 
The kaleidoscope of shapes and 
colors was subtly compelling, 
enticing 
unfamiliar 
eyes 

to 
repeatedly 
wander 
the 

expanse of the diner. There 
was an unconventionality in 

even the simplest of objects: 
a green ribbon tied around a 
random mustard bottle; tables 
that were constantly pushed 
into 
new 
configurations 

to 
accommodate 
incoming 

customers. I ate. I observed.

Fleetwood spat us back onto 

the street around an hour later 
— uncomfortably full and still 
reeling. I was more than a little 
surprised and, walking back up 
the endless line of East Liberty, 
more than a little disappointed. 
Fleetwood hadn’t been the 
fantastical experience I had 
romanticized. There were no 
performances of Weird Shit.

Instead, 
the 
abnormality 

of 
Fleetwood 
manifested 

itself in deceptively modest 
ways. Rather than the mass 
pandemonium 
I 
had 
been 

expecting, 
several 
bizarre 

fragments of eccentricity all 
occurred 
simultaneously, 

scattered within the cramped 
space. A man seated on top of a 
haggard barstool had endlessly 
stirred his coffee with a single 

pinky finger while our waitress 
harassed a set of poor-tipping 
customers. The long tendrils of 
her hair whipped around like 
snakes, almost colliding with 
the people who had sat at the 
table adjacent to ours. They 
had taken no notice, focused 
more on decorating their empty 
plates with ketchup bottles 
held aloft like paintbrushes. 
In the other corner of the 
restaurant, 
detached 
from 

it all, a man had fallen fast 
asleep, cheek pillowed on a 
stack of pancakes.

Fleetwood Diner’s brand of 

peculiarity manifests in the 
little things.

Minuscule 
details 
that 

include the building itself. 
Like any piece of architecture 
with a history, the diner seems 
to have a life of its own. The 
cacophony of scrawled graffiti 
signatures and tattered pieces 
of art on the walls spiral like 
the rings of a redwood, each 
tattered layer corresponding 
with a particular time period. 
Underneath 
the 
dust 
and 

discoloration, the checkered 
tile of the floor stretches into 
roots that are wrapped around 
the very heart of the city; a tree 
grows on South Ashley Street.

However, first and foremost, 

it is the people who trail in and 
out of the diner that truly make 
its space come to life.

Fleetwood is contingent on 

its customers in a way that is 
distinctive from surrounding 
restaurants. Their influence 

lies beyond solely monetary 
value; the very essence of 
Fleetwood, 
the 
qualities 

that make it unique, is only 
maintained as a result of the 
people who walk in through 
its doors. After all, it is an 
interactive diner — one that is 
able to be altered by any person 
who decides they want to leave 
their mark, whether that be 
through a sticker plastered on 
off-white walls or hurriedly 
engraved initials on a table 
corner.

It is this communal quality 

that 
makes 
Fleetwood 
so 

singular. Within its crooked 
walls, it holds various stories 
from various individuals. It 
is a restaurant anybody can 
stumble into and instantly feel 
welcome.

The Fleetwood Diner has 

remained stubbornly relevant 
since its creation in 1947. Not 
one for being overly fixated 
on remodeling, it seems to 
let its different parts grow 
independently, resulting in a 
restaurant that is a blend of 
retro and modern. Fleetwood 
can’t be pinned down to an 
exact time period. Eighties-
esque 
black-and-white 

barstools stand next to decal 
based 
off 
contemporary 

pop culture. The primitive 
cash register is a tan-and-
brown 
monstrosity 
always 

surrounded by a sea of sleek 
iPhones. A mess of contrasts, 
Fleetwood appears to exist in 
a slightly different world than 
the rest of Ann Arbor.

Even 
the 
restaurant 

workers seem like they have 
been molded from Fleetwood 
itself, traversing the cramped 
corners with a practiced ease.

Take Rob Bell. A waiter at 

the diner for almost 13 years, 
he balances numerous tasks 
with an easy smile. As he runs 
from the cash register to the 
kitchen to customers’ tables, 
he still somehow finds spare 
time to share accounts of his 
most memorable Fleetwood 
moments.

“A lady brought a birdcage 

in here in the middle of the 
night,” Bell said. “Like maybe 
12:30, 1:00 a.m., and she had 
two birds in there and one of 
them was dead … she thought it 
was sleeping.”

Though not as surreal as 

deceased birds, Bell went on to 
describe the numerous small 
fights that occurred within 
Fleetwood’s 
history. 
The 

relative tranquility in his voice 
as he described tables being 
flipped and food being thrown 
made it seem like late-night 
diner 
brawls 
were 
normal 

incidents.

“A guy threw the cash 

register at me about 10 years 
ago,” Bell said.

When 
asked 
why, 
Bell 

responded, “He threatened to 
kick my ass so I said, ‘C’mon, 
player, I got the knife.’ ”

Iconic.
Apart 
from 
the 
overall 

amiability, there was also a 
distinct candidness as Bell 
talked about the occasional 
dead fowl and airborne cash 
register: 
he 
didn’t 
strive 

to make Fleetwood appear 
picture-perfect. 
There 
was 

FLICKR

A picture of a Ukranian Easter table
The cultural customs of 
foreign foods and holidays

Erika Shevchek chronicles her life in food, family, and tradition

I’ve had a type of innate luck 

— I was raised in a home where 
my parents, heavily anchored 
in their heritage and religion, 
brought me up to eat … and to 
eat well.

My family, a combination 

of Ukrainian and Hungarian 
backgrounds, are firm believers 
in the power of food and the 
style of embedding it into our 
everyday lives. Whether that 
be religious holidays, family 
reunions or a weekend meal, 
food is and will always be the 
seal of my family.

2003
Ukrainian 
Orthodox 

Christmas Eve consisted of 
anxiously waiting. We waited 
for the Ukrainian Santa (yes, 
he was different from the 
North Pole Santa), to come to 
our house and for our ancestors 
to return from the heavens 
and eat our Kutia. We put the 
Kutia, a sweet rice dish made 
with berries, poppy seeds and 
honey, out on the dining room 
table along with pictures of 
my deceased grandparents. My 
family would have a moment 
of silence and then head off to 
bed.

Christmas 
morning, 
the 

Kutia would be gone, and the 
spoons would lie in the bowls 
after being used. Six-year-old 
me was more than spooked out 
— I was infatuated.

“Mommy, Baba and Dede 

came last night!” I exclaimed 
to my mother, excited that the 
grandparents I never got to 
meet returned to the dining 
room that previous night. As 
I matured, I unfortunately 
found out that my parents ate 
the Kutia after my sister and I 
went to sleep.

Nonetheless, as a memorable 

and holy ritual, I still try to 
think that Baba and Dede and 
the rest of my ancestors eat our 
tasty Kutia and are with us on 
Christmas holidays.

2008
The long hours standing in 

a foreign church are tedious, 
but when the congregation and 
Father Frank move outside to 
the front yard, I know it is time 
to bless the Easter basket (and 
church was finally over).

Unique in everyone’s basket 

are 
always 
assortments 
of 

kobasa 
(Ukrainian 
pork 

sausage), 
paska 
(a 
sweet 

bread), cheese blintzes, butter, 
cream 
cheese, 
red 
horse 

radish, mustard and pysankas 
(Ukrainian decorated Easter 
eggs). 
Father 
Frank 
walks 

around, throws holy water 
onto each basket and blesses 
them.

~

“Christos Voz Crest! … He 

has risen,” I say to my aunt 
as I nibble at the kobasa on 
the Easter Sunday morning. 
She slices her famous and 
delectable paska; she replies to 
me, “Voistynu Voskres” or “He 
has risen indeed.”

We set the dining room 

table for our annual Orthodox 
brunch — a space sprinkled 
with 
vibrant 
colors 
and 

dishes. 
Bagels, 
lox, 
cream 

cheese, the condiments from 
the Easter basket and orange 
juice decorate the Ukrainian 
tablecloth. My sister, mom, dad 
and aunt all gather around the 
table, and we each grab a “Uki 
egg” and peel away. 

2013
My cousins and I sit around 

the fire pit on a beating-hot 
August Saturday. Sweating, we 
catch up on school, jobs and 
significant others, the typical 
thing to do at a family reunion. 
The uncles play horseshoes and 
smoke cigars while the aunts 
finish up the chicken goulash, 
stuffed cabbage and nokedli (a 
type of mini Hungarian noodle 
dumpling).

It seems odd that a group 

of 
50 
or 
so 
Hungarians 

would make a huge fire on an 
80-degree day, but that is how 
we “sutni szalona,” or “roast 
the bacon fat.”

With rye bread in one hand 

and a metal spear stabbed 
into a slab of bacon fat in the 
other, I prepare myself for the 
Hungarian-style food dish we 
unconditionally love.

When the bacon fat begins 

to turn a dark brown, we 
slap it onto our rye bread —
pressing the fat until it is fully 
covered in grease and looks 
dirty (hence, we call it “dirty 
bread”). We add some roasted 
onions and peppers on top (or 
other veggies if preferred), and 
we eat in silence for the next 
few minutes as our taste buds 
become supremely satisfied.

Later, I grab some csoroge, 

a 
deep-fried 
cookie 
with 

powdered sugar, before my 
cousins tell me to get my butt 
to the front yard for a family 
volleyball game.

2016
My dad, his sister and I sat 

at our favorite sushi place in 
my hometown. My dad popped 
some takoyaki in his mouth, 
and I watched him chew the 
fried octopus ball.

“C’mon, just try one E,” he 

said trying to convince me. 
But the now-vegetarian me 
looked at my father blankly and 
continued to eat my edamame.

In that moment, I truly 

reflected on what it means to 
be a vegetarian and how it is a 
privilege. I thought of how my 
entire life I was brought up to 
eat meat, both Ukrainian and 
Hungarian, and how I never 
second-guessed it.

We discussed the concept 

of modern-day diet choices 
— how once there was a time 
where one did not have the 
freedom to restrict or expand 
his or her diet. My aunt looked 
at me, with a twist of history 
and sadness in her eyes.

She 
explained 
to 
me 

truthfully about what life was 
like coming to America with 
her 
parents. 
Coming 
over 

from Ukraine at the age of 4, 
my aunt was launched into 
the rough area of Frankford, 
Philadelphia, 
as 
a 
poor 

immigrant.

“Vegetables 
and 
potatoes 

were all we could afford, 
so we ate a lot of stew,” she 
continued. It all began to click 
when I realized why my Dad’s 
stews are always so hearty and 
delicious. “If there was meat on 
the table, you were considered 
really lucky.”

Feeling guilty, I listened 

earnestly as I pushed around 
my veggie sushi on my plate. 
Vegetables were not a choice 
for a diet, but for survival; meat 
was not frowned upon, but was 
seen as a true luxury.

My 
aunt, 
remembering 

the hardships of being an 
immigrant, and I, knowing 
that I have the ability to pick 
and choose what I eat, sat in 
the same booth. We ate in 
the same booth, but we came 
from 
completely 
different 

places, had severely different 
childhoods and had an entirely 
different view on food itself.

I 
thanked 
them 
for 

everything 
they 
did, 
for 

everything Baba and Dede did 
… I thanked them for giving me 
the opportunity to even sit in a 
Japanese restaurant and be a 
vegetarian. 

SHIMA SADAGHIYANI

Daily Arts Writer

ERIKA SHEVCHEK

Daily Community Culture Editor

no pretense of false honesty 
in order to gain customer 
approval.

“(Fleetwood) is a very real 

place … you can tell that the 
people who work here aren’t 
faking it,” Bell said. “And I 
think a lot of people can tell 
that and appreciate that it’s 
not fake … we say, ‘I appreciate 
you,’ and we appreciate you; we 
say, ‘Get the fuck out,’ and we 
mean ‘Get the fuck out.’ ”

I thought the plain-spoken 

forthrightness was refreshing. 

And 
if 
the 
popularity 
of 

Fleetwood is anything to go off, 
many other individuals do as 
well.

The 
biggest 
spectacle 

of 
Fleetwood 
lies 
in 
its 

genuineness. What you see is 
what you get. Open and honest, 
Fleetwood truly is a diner for 
the people: accessible to all, 
regardless of whether it was 
hobbled into at 3 a.m. for respite 
or purposefully sought out at 11 
a.m. for a family brunch.

The Fleetwood Diner has 

a knack of quietly storing 
memories within its rickety 
walls. It’s not extravagant, 
nor 
is 
it 
embellished, 
but 

everyone 
manages 
to 
have 

their own set of outlandishly 
distinctive experiences. The 
diner manages to represent the 
surrounding community, all its 
traditions and idiosyncrasies, 
with a tireless integrity that 
persuades customers to keep 
coming back.

Well, that and the Hippie 

Hash.

The abnormality 

of Fleetwood 

manifested itself 

in deceptively 
modest ways

LEAD

SECONDARY

