Anyplace that opens at 9:00am is a must-stop in my book. If they’re open at 9:00am, there must be some sort of crowd that comes in that early. 3rd shifters? Tourists? Neighborhood drunks? Or maybe not. Maybe the owner just wakes up and hangs out in the bar all day, then goes to bed after last call. The Tigers had a day game, and that made it OK to have a beer at 9:00am, and that made Abick’s the best option.
Abick’s is tucked away in a neighborhood on the Southwest side of Detroit, located two blocks deep into a neighborhood of bungalows and two-flats, some old, some not so old. There’s always something special about a place that’s not anywhere near a commercial corridor. It’s surrounded by homes and yards, not storefronts and gas stations. It’s quiet. It’s comforting. It gives you a calm rush of exclusivity and excitement.
The two-story brick façade greets you with a certain curiosity for what lies beyond those walls. Totally looks like the kind of place where the owner still lives upstairs. It sticks out in stature and contrast to all the other homes, as if it were the cornerstone of the neighborhood.
You have to be buzzed in to get inside Abick’s front door. A measure not uncommon, but one that always gives you a feeling of suspense and uncertainty, as you feel you’re entering somewhere that there’s a need to be sized up before you walk in. And you wonder who’s finger is on the buzzer? And you wonder who might be inside that might want others out? Or you think to yourself, it’s just an old security measure leftover from an era Detroit isn’t too proud of? Or maybe it’s just local custom.
The bar was empty on this particular hot Detroit morning. At 9:45am, we were the first customers of the day. The neon “open” sign hadn’t even been turned on yet. We were greeted by a cheery middle aged bartender who was happy to see us, as was the guard dog Shadow, who looked exactly like Hercules, AKA the Beast, AKA the English Bastiff from the movie Sandlot. I’m not a huge animal in public places person, but that dog was at home on that hardwood barroom floor. We got cozy with big ol’ 100lb Shadow, and even gave him some treats. He was a good dawg.
No beer on tap. Pool tables. Juke box. Backroom. Christmas lights. No outside light allowed in. Abick’s is a place with an Irish tint, so much green everywhere you look.
It felt like a 3rd shifter’s paradise. Dark and exclusive, a fridge full of bottles ranging from Stroh’s to Bell’s Oberon, and fifths of every brown liquor you can name behind the bar.
It was decorated as a hallowed hall, as are most bars in Detroit. Plaques remembering the greats who played TV’s on various sizes and shapes above the bar throughout the years. Gordie Howe, Kirk Gibson, the Bad Boys Pistons. Several commendations and commemorations from local Polish organizations spread throughout. There was a spuds McKenzie life size statue above the bar, which is always a good sign. To me, they’re as prestigious as an “Old Style: Cold Beer” sign in Chicago. I see a lot of Spuds in Michigan. Alex from Stroh’s, not so much.
But this place didn’t have the soul or the flatscreen’s of a sports bar. It had nostalgia. It had junk. It had wall decorations that are earned and gathered, not merely bought. The backroom was the perfect setting for banquets like a little league awards night or 50th Birthday Parties.
The rope lights around a bar always give a place charm. I sat there, scanned each strand, and was both saddened and impressed that every bulb was lit. How bout that?
After I sucked down my first MGD, I noticed the posts in the center bar had grooves in them, where they lined them with people’s business cards. All kinds of people. Roofers and Real Estaters. Chiefs and Chefs. Newsmen and Bluesmen.
Me: Hey, what do you have to do to get your business card up on the wall?
Bartender: You got a card on you?
Me: *reaches for wallet*
And so it came to be.
Say hi to my business card at Abick’s. Or be the card to bump mine out of the post. And remember, they start doing business at 9:00am.
Jake Berent 
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