I have some pretty wild fantasies, y'all. There's that one I've had since I was a kid, where I wake…read moreup and I'm suddenly the second-best at every instrument in the world (I refuse to take first place because those folks worked hard to get there). Then there's the one I've had since adulthood, where I get to be the guest star in some hot couple's marital bed (don't judge me, I haven't thought this through at all and have no one in mind).
Sure, I've got the standard fantasies: hittin' it rich, quitting my day job, beating the pulp out of horrendous biotches who had it coming...you know, the uge.
But one of my weirder ones is that I'm the lead singer in an Irish trad group, and I bring the house down by nailing every tongue-twister verse of The Rocky Road to Dublin. That's the type of fantasy that shows up when I'm waiting for my burger at Duffy's, staring at their year-round St. Patrick's Day décor. In that moment, I'm convinced I could pull it off...and I'd be a Plastic Paddy legend.
Let's backtrack a sec. Duffy's already knew I was a slag for public recognition, so they blasted my (fake) name on their marquee about a month ago. I don't care if it was AI-generated or lasted a mere 24 hours. I was damp.
Here's the problem: as popular as I like to imagine myself, I don't actually have many friends in town. That's what comes with accidentally infiltrating a social scene 300 miles from where I live. I knew if I went to Duffy's solo, I'd be the lonely noon-drinker at the bar. Luckily, the Mother Superior of the Lex herself answered my plea and met me for Saturday lunch (thanks, Jen).
And thank God it was Detroit's Duffy's and not Chicago's. If you like having your drink tampered with by the captain of the lacrosse team, head to Chicago Duffy's. It sucks c*cks in hell. Detroit Duffy's, on the other hand, couldn't be more different.
This place is everything I love about Detroit: self-effacing, affordable, straightforward, turning out an exemplary product with staff who are all heart and will remember you forever. Why the actual f*ck don't I live here?
Jen and I slid into the end of the bar and started a bit of craic with the owners, Lauren and Brad. I didn't give them my full life story, but probably about 50% of it. I was not judged. I love you. Sorry, I say that too soon. Working on it.
Anyrate, we ate our burgers, and it was a real "Come to Jesus" moment. A good burger can turn a whole day around. Add cheap beer and sharp conversation, and you've got the blue-ribbon recipe for a great f*cking afternoon.
The highlight of my day was spotting a lone DeKuyper's bottle marked Crantasia. I had to say it aloud five times minimum. Can we please have a "Best Use of Crantasia" cocktail contest? Winner gets their own five-star review and a Keno ticket. The staff has reason to believe that this is the last bottle on earth. That feels like destiny to me.
Truly, I could have spent the whole day (and night) shooting the shit with this lot, but The Lex was calling Jen home. Plus, it was still broad daylight, and I had driven myself there. I promised to return, rolled my wide Irish ass home, and fell straight into a food coma.
So yeah, Duffy's gave me the burger, the beer, the conversation, and the reminder that even if I'm 300 miles from home, I can still stumble into the kind of place that feels like it's been waiting for me all along. That's no small thing. I'll be back soon, probably oversharing again, and definitely ordering another round.