With a pure mind and an even purer heart, I set out with five chums last night on a holy quest to eat BBQ at the Union Woodshop in Clarkston. You might have even heard of it because of the episode of Diners, Drive-ins and Dives on the Food Network, with that most-lovable host, Guy Fieri (fat dude, with spikey, bleached-blond hair). Downtown Clarkston itself is a very pleasant place, with a quaint country town feel, but only about 25 minutes from West Bloomfield.
We were all jokes during the entire drive. The levity didn’t take a single moment off until we opened the doors and heard the complaints of one of the patrons.
Old lady: “We have been here for three hours and we still haven’t gotten a table. We even know the chef.”
Friend 1: “Wow, he must not like you very much.”
Old lady: “Not even that connection could help us sit down.”
Friend 1: “I’m pretty sure you’re just in denial about his true feelings for you.”
Despite the outrageous wait time of four hours that were told, our name was added to the list and we took our pager and our hungry bellies down the street to attempt to partake of a similar meal at the Clarkston Union, which resided in an old, converted church about 100 yards down the road from the Woodshop.
When we got inside and inquired as to the current wait time, we were extremely relieved to hear it was only two hours. I myself felt a huge weight lifted of my shoulders when I realized I was only going to have to wait two hours to sit down and another 20 minutes or so to actually be served some food. With a very ungracious “Thanks” and a tip of the cap we made our exit and returned to the car in search of a new watering hole.
It was very fortunate for us that the Clarkston Tap Room was nearby. Because we were definitely on the lamb and didn’t want to be caught by the cops after our string of high-speed train robberies, this place looked pretty appealing. With our six-shooters in hand and a wary eye, we sauntered in and took a table with an unimpeded view of all the TVs. Instead of waiting four hours for a table, we only waited for minutes for a waitress to come and take our drink orders.
Waitress: “What can I get you guys to drink?”
Friend 1: “Can we have a pitcher?”
Friend 2: “Can I have a Goose on the rocks?”
Me: “Can I have a double of vodka on the rocks?”
Friend 3: “Can I have a merlot?”
You would have thought he solicited our waitress or told her that one of his hobbies was using small dogs as a weapon to beat larger dogs. All she could do was to stand stock still with a blank expression her face. Before she recovered my impertinent friend realized his error and changed his drink to a Bloody Mary. The food was good and the conversation was better; consisting mostly of the origins of the universe and the meaning of life. Shortly after 10 p.m. a call was made to the Woodshop and they responded that we would be able to sit in a half hour.
We made a mad dash to the door, after paying our tab of course, and piled into my sedan that was meant for much more petite passengers. Back to the Woodshop we went and were able to order before 11. My half-chicken was wonderful and everyone was in good spirits. We ate, made merry and enjoyed each other’s company. Everyone had a good time. I even tried a bite of the butterscotch pudding, which was pretty incredible. It wound up being a very successful evening. I guess my mom was right when she told me about delayed gratification.
