Seventy-one floors above Detroit, taking in views of the north, south, east and west and across the Canadian border, Highlands restaurant, upon opening last fall, was to be a symbol of Detroit’s return from the long nightmare of the largest municipal bankruptcy in U.S. history in 2013, at a time when its population had declined from 1.8 million people in 1950 to 700,000.
    Located within the city’s awkwardly renamed landmark GMRENCEN (previously the Renaissance Center), Highlands was to be a big part of Detroit’s recovery, which included a new convention center that was scheduled to come on line in 2020 for the International Auto Show, now postponed until 2021. The old Joe Louis arena was torn down, with a replacement due this summer. Ford Motor Company had plans to renovate the Michigan Central train station. Then, with the arrival of the COVID-19 pandemic, everything screeched to a halt.

 Photo: Ken Miller

   The Highlands opened to much fanfare last November, although there had long been a restaurant atop the hotel since the days when aeries like New York’s Windows on the World and the revolving restaurants atop Seattle’s Space Needle and Atlanta’s Hyatt Regency were quite literally the heights of American dining.  McClain Camarota Hospitality, which has three restaurants in Las Vegas, took over what had been called the Coach Insignia (then owned by Marriott) and spent three years on the project. Chef-partner Shawn McClain, born in Grosse Ile, Michigan, just down the Detroit River, worked on three different concepts on the 71st and 72nd floors, reached by a dedicated elevator within the hotel: Highlands Steakhouse, with an open kitchen, 200-label wine list and bays of banquettes; High Bar, which has 21 private Scotch lockers for Detroit Whiskey Club; and Hearth 71, a more casual restaurant with open-fire cooking and emphasis on small plates.
    Highlands re-opened June 17 under municipal guidelines that require a 50 percent capacity of guests; six feet of space between tables; signage that explains all precautions; and masks for all employees. There are no longer printed menus, using instead a QR code people can scan with their phone. Face coverings are required to enter the building, in the elevator and when guests are moving through the common areas within the restaurants. Bar seating is not available at High Bar during the current phase of reopening. Lounge seating, banquette and floating low- and hi-top seating all have six-foot distancing between each table.
     According to Richard Camarota, Highlands Operations Director & Managing Partner, “We couldn't operate [during the shutdown], so we decided to double down on developing our people and our culture. We enlisted our friend and collaborator Shane Green, a renowned culture guru based in Las Vegas and author of The Culture Hacker, to help us re-define our shared values, so that they’re more than just a poster on the wall. We are committed to ensuring our values are actionable, measurable and can be felt by all, from the dishwashers to the hosts, and everyone in between."
    Before the shut-down, Highlands had attracted the usual early curiosity seekers but had quickly developed both a local and suburban clientele, with guests driving two hours into town. Management was betting on the casino crowd just across the river in Canada as well as those who would be coming to the new convention center and sports arenas to see Pistons, Tigers and Lions games in season.  The pandemic dashed all those prospects. And with its kitchens and facilities 71 floors up in the air, take-out service was never an option.
    “We hope that we’ll begin settling back into more normal operations come Labor Day,” says McClain, “but for now we are staying cautious and our operations are limited. We'll keep it this way, until we're convinced that we can scale up safely. I am personally thrilled to be back to work; it means the world to be in this amazing setting, taking care of people, cooking our butts off and doing what we love."
    I had occasion to visit Detroit and dine at Highlands last January and found the local boosters giddily optimistic that the city’s economic troubles were behind it. In an editorial in an October 2019 issue of Visit Detroit entitled “It’s Happening,” Larry Alexander, president and CEO of the Detroit Metro Convention & Visitors Bureau, wrote, “We are in awe of the list of talking points we now have about what’s new, what’s coming and what’s possible in Detroit. It seems to be never-ending and constantly evolving.”
    Nowhere did this seem to be the case more than at Highlands, which had just enough Midwestern swank and swagger to become a destination restaurant, with nothing else like it from Detroit to Chicago. At the time the panorama was the obvious, major draw, but the food I tasted showed the real strength of modern American cuisine when it is based on first-rate ingredients, not least the steaks dry-aged in Highlands’ own lockers, and provender as much as possible from Michigan and the Midwest.
    While I have not been back to taste my way through the current menu, now fixed priced at $71 for four courses, most of the dishes I enjoyed a great deal are still on it, including the wagyu beef tartare with smoked egg yolk, marrow toast and pickled shallot; the chilled King prawns with sorrel cream, sugar snap peas, lemon zest aïoli and radishes; superb housemade ricotta agnolotti with roasted zucchini, cherry tomatoes, eggplant and balsamic puree and sweet basil; and Painted Hills Ranch New York Strip (above) served with whipped potatoes, charred leek herb sauce and glazed pearl onions. Supplements apply to Piedmontese filets, raw oysters, fried squash blossoms and more. For dessert, there’s chocolate ganache with peanut butter mouse and toasted marshmallow, and violet crème brûlée with Michigan black cherry, juniper and candied lemon.
    The High Bar menu, with a welcome collection of Michigan beers like Brewery Vivant from Grand Rapids and Arbor Classic Blonde Ale from Ann Arbor, also offers the wagyu beef tartare ($18); foie gras brûlée ($25); bucatini with wild mushrooms ($15; left) and an artisanal cheese board ($12).
    I can imagine that seeing the lighted floors of Highlands from across the Detroit River in Windsor, Canada, is like seeing the lights of the World Trade Center and Empire State Building from across the East River in Brooklyn. And while I was looking out the tall windows from a banquette in the dining room I remembered that it was the same spot where Jennifer Lopez met George Clooney in the 1998 movie Out of Sight (right), which, oddly enough, no one at the restaurant seemed to recall. I remember Lopez ordering “bourbon, water back,” and Clooney, speaking in Elmore Leonard’s cool bankrobber voice, being seductive, saying, “You’d be surprised about what you can get, if you ask for it the right way.” 

 

NEW YORK CORNER
By John Mariani

LOVE AND PIZZA

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

    Nicola brought back the pizza and passed it around to her friends.
    “Nicky, you had ten phone messages today,” said Catherine, who seemed as intrigued as she was annoyed by having to take  several of them while studying.
    Nicola had returned to the dorm exhausted and was bewildered as to who would be calling her.  Not even her family called her unless there was an emergency.
    “Who’s calling me?” she asked Catherine.
    “From the looks of the messages—some of them are in Italian—they seem to be editors and modeling agents. The dorm     took some of the others and just scribbled down the numbers.”
    “You’re kidding?”
    “Call them and find out.”
    “I don’t believe all this is happening,” said Nicola, tossing her things on the bed. “I have so much to tell you about what     happened this morning.”
    “I’m all ears.”
    “Oh, I’ll tell you, but first, first I have to tell you we are both invited to a dinner party at Signora Palma’s.”
Catherine gasped. “When?”
    “Tonight.”
    Catherine, not usually fazed by invitations to dinner parties, said, “Palma wants you and the rest of the models to come to a dinner party?”
    “No, she told me it was only me, then specifically invited you.”
    Catherine sat down on her bed and said, “Nick, I knew this whole modeling thing was going to lead to something. This is fabulous!”  Then, showing mild anxiety, Catherine asked, “What’s the dress code for the party?”
    Nicola shrugged and said, “Signora Palma said whatever we want to wear. She said—Nicola rolled her eyes and affected Signora Palma’s accent—“Bella, you and Caterina are so bee-yoo-ti-full, you wear any-thing you want!”
    “I hate when someone says that. It doesn’t give me a clue what to wear.”
    “Well, it’s certainly not going to be a big deal formal dinner.  She’s exhausted and she said she just wanted to have some friends over. I think she just wants to thank me for helping her out.”
    “Okay,” said Catherine, whose mind was turning over all the clues, “so here’s what we do.  We go chic but cool, we don’t overdress, but we have to look as if we know what’s stylish. God knows what everyone else will be wearing.”
    “How ‘bout you work on that? I gotta get a nap in before we leave.”
    Catherine replied, “Nothing would please me more. Go to sleep.”
    The phone messages went unanswered that evening; actually Nicola forgot about them in her haste to take a nap then get dressed for dinner. She’d glanced at a few, no one she knew, then decided to take them with her to Signora Palma’s, in case she’d know some of the names.
    An hour later Catherine gently shook her friend from sleep, and whispered, “Nicky, time to get ready. Wanna know what I chose for us tonight?”
    Nicola rose, then collapsed back onto her pillow, then rose again and looked across at Catherine’s bed, now spread out with clothes.  Catherine had cobbled together outfits like a scavenger—a couple of the new items the girls had bought, some old ones, even one or two from Mercédes.  
        “Signora, for your perusal,” Catherine said grandly.
    “Good job!” said Nicola. “I like this . . . and this.  Maybe another scarf with this? But first let me take a shower.”
    Nicola stood under the handheld shower head on the twisting snake-like metal coil common to European showers, soaking herself free of the hairspray, the make-up and the sweat of the day’s event.  While she stood there under the weak jet of barely hot water, she began to think about how the day had been a complete fluke and that tonight would be fun and then it would be over.  The idea of going on with modeling really meant nothing to her, she kept telling herself, not least because she was returning in another two months to New York to take summer courses to gain enough credits to graduate after the fall semester.  She could think about everything else then.  
    “Nick,” shouted Catherine, “save me some hot water!”
    “Sorry,” said Nicola, shaken from a daydream that seemed to straddle the world of academia and of fashion. “I’m coming out.”
    While Catherine was showering, Nicola sat in front of the mirror wondering if she should attempt to restore the Cardinale-like make-up she’d wore that day and decided, what the hell, why not, just not so dramatic as for the runway.  Signora Palma would probably love it if she did.  So, trying to recall what the stylist had done at the studio, Nicola applied eyeliner and mascara, with an almost unnoticeable amount of coral-colored eye shadow.  Nicola’s skin, with that hint of out-of-season tan, needed nothing and her lipstick was a natural pink.
    Having decided to go fairly casual, and with the weather still not quite feeling like spring, Nicola chose beautifully tailored charcoal gray slacks with a royal blue cashmere v-neck sweater and an unconstructed knitted blazer closely matching the two colors.  Her hair was down and billowing.  Catherine, who always went for bright colors, opted for a printed blouse she’d bought that week at Moschino and a burgundy colored crêpe fabric miniskirt, but not that short.  Her hair was tied back with a silk kerchief.
    “Ready?” she asked Nicola.
    “Guess so.  Let’s go wow the fashionistas of Mee-lah-no.”
    The usual BMW was waiting for them downstairs and off they went, again to the Navigli, just a few blocks from the Patrizia Palma studio.  It was a pre-war building, not novecento, and retained the solid, stripped down art déco lines once favored by Mussolini’s architects in the 1930s.  In the piazza outside stood a statue of a nude man and a rearing horse on a pedestal—a favorite motif of that period, now looking like a bad modern copy of a bad Roman copy of a mediocre Greek statue. 
    The driver rang the doorbell for the girls and the responder told them to come to the third floor.   When they exited the narrow, enclosed elevator, they could hear nothing that suggested a party was going on, and when Signora Palma opened the door, wearing flared blue jeans that seem to have been applied with glue, she said,  “Ah! You the first to arrive!” she said. “Brava! Everyone else will be fashionably late as usual.”
Catherine looked at her watch, noting it was after nine o’clock, thinking that she and Nicola were fashionably late for a dinner party that was supposed to begin at 8:30. 
    The plain interior of the building’s public spaces did not prepare them for Signora Palma’s very spacious apartment, with a circular staircase to another floor.  The foyer, bound by two squared-off columns that were part of the building’s sober architecture, opened onto a large living room to one side and an equally large dining room on the other.  The former was done in a mix of Italian antiques and very modern sofas, couches and even a divan, all in different Crayola-like colors—the hallmark of modern Milanese interior design, especially that of the Memphis Group, a collaborative of young designers formed only four years earlier and named after the Bob Dylan song “Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again.”
Nicola had seen some of the designs in magazines and, although her own tastes ran to more conservative styles, she marveled at the quirky bright colors, the angular shelving and objets d’art that looked like toys from an oversized children’s nursery.  Catherine was all smiles, telling Nicky, “This is soooo cool.  I’ve never seen anything like this in any New York apartment!”
Signora Palma asked them, “How you like? Is fun, eh?” and began reeling off some names—Cibic, De Lucchi, Bedin, Zanini—saying, “These designers are very young, in their twenties.  They are just getting started and I like to support them.  Wait till you see what they do in the future.”  Then, coughing from her own cigarette smoke, she said, “Ah, if I was their age I become an interior designer, not a crazy fashion designer!”
Signora Palma continued to show them around, then, approached by a middle-aged woman with an apron, said, “Ah, mi dispiace. I need to check the kitchen, see if everything is ready in case anybody shows up.  Be comfortable. Don’t go upstairs, is a mess!”
    With that a young man in a white jacket brought the women a tray with two filled Champagne glasses and another with little green olives and morsels of Parmigiano cheese.  The two Americans kept exploring, then heard the doorbell ring, followed a minute later by four stylishly dressed people in their forties and fifties, all of them seeming to speak at once in a very animated fashion. 
    “Let me guess,” said Catherine. “They’re Italian.”
    “Gee, you’re good,” said Nicola.

    One of the women, dressed in a sheer black silk blouse and winter white slacks, broke from the group and walked squarely towards the two Americans. “Buona sera, signorine, io mi chiamo Clara Scarpetta.”
Nicola gave Catherine’s and her name in Italian, then the woman’s eyes widened and she said, “Ah! Si! Lei e la nuova ragazza che somiglia come Cardinale!”  She called her friends over to introduce them, all of whom had been at the Patrizia Palma show that morning. They each nodded and said to each other that Nicola did look amazingly like the actress, and Clara said, “You are American, si?”
    Relieved that the woman spoke English, Nicola replied, “Yes, we’re students at college here in Milan for the semester.”
    “Si, Patrizia she tell me she meet you, where? At Bagutta, and she—Bop!—just like this she hire you to be her model?”
    “Yes, much to my amazement, that’s what happened.”
    One of the men, whose name was Lucio, said, “I thought you were maraviglioso today! Very beautiful and the show so well presented, with the movie stars.  You look very professional today. But you say you never model before today?”
Nicola just shook her head, showing the broad smile everyone had fallen in love with that morning.
    “Well, I hope you will do more!,” said Lucio. “I am in the fashion business myself, signorina—I invest in Patrizia’s company—and I know a good model when I see one. You know, most of them are blonde and skinny—which, I admit, makes the clothes look good.  But the models don’t look so good, capisce?  They are not women, they are like robots, you know? You and you, Caterina, you look like real women.”
    “After three months in Italy I look a lot more like one,” she replied.
    “No, really, you look bellissima.”
    The doorbell rang again, the elevator came up and the apartment door was opened to four more guests, this time not all Italian, but one German, another French.  All were extremely cordial to the American girls, exchanging the usual small talk along with rave reviews of the morning’s show.
    After a half hour, her guests fortified with Champagne and tidbits,  Signora Palma clapped her hands and said, “Allora, mangiamo, i miei amici!” then told everyone to sit where they wished, except Nicola, to whom she said, “I save a special place for you, next to me,  ecco, here.”
    The table was set for twelve and as the first wine was being poured, a chilled Vernaccia di San Gimignano, everyone sat down, the men helping the women with their chairs.
    “You don't see that much back home,” noted Catherine.
    “Tell me about it,” said Nicola, “although, actually, my grandfather still does that for my grandmother.”
Nicola was seated to Signora Palma’s right with an empty chair to her left.  Catherine was three chairs away, chatting away amiably in a manner that showed she was eminently accomplished conversing with complete strangers.
     As the last of the glasses were filled, the doorbell rang and when the door opened a tall, slender blond young man, about 28, entered, profusely apologizing to everyone for being late.  He took off his trench coat and straightened his beautifully cut navy blue blazer with, curiously enough, a pink button-down shirt.
Nicola and Catherine looked at each, trying not to gasp.
    “It’s that gorgeous guy from the Armani show,” whispered Catherine from three chairs away. Nicola, wide-eyed, nodded, “I know, I know,” realizing at once that with only one empty chair, the young man would be sitting directly across from her.

© John Mariani, 2020

NOTES FROM THE WINE CELLAR

 

WHY YOU SHOULDN’T SERVE RED WINE WITH CHEESE AND OTHER NONSENSICAL WINE AND FOOD PAIRINGS
By John Mariani

 

    Wine geeks firmly believe that there is a wine that matches up with absolutely everything, with the possible exception of Cheerios. Other than that, they would have you drinking wine with foods that are absolutely all wrong together. In fact, many pairings have become clichés while others make no sense at all. Here are examples worth ignoring.

 

Red wine and chocolate—Dry red wines like Cabernets, Zinfandels, Burgundies and Bordeaux are by their very nature full of tannins, which wonderfully complement savory food. They do nothing, however, for sweet foods, which completely blunt those tannins’ appeal and vice versa. Chocolate desserts and candies are to be enjoyed on their own, and, after a savory meal with red wine, who really wants to drink more with dessert?

 

Dessert wines go well with desserts—A broad range of sweet wines, from Port to Sauternes, usually fall under the category of “dessert wines,” suggesting they go well with desserts. But not only are most desserts, from lemon meringue pie to Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream, sweeter than most sweet wines that lose in the match, but the better sweet wines of the world should be enjoyed as an end-of-the-meal dessert all on their own. A great Tröckenbeerenauslese from the Rhine, a golden Sauternes from Bordeaux, a late harvest Riesling from California or a vintage Port from the Douro Valley are wines made to be savored in sips with nothing else to detract from their unique excellence.

Sauternes and Foie gras—While we’re speaking of Sauternes, the “classic” match -up of Sauternes with foie gras is explained by saying that the ultra-rich fattiness of the liver is complemented by ultra-rich sweetness of the botrytis-infected Semillon grape. Why that makes sense is beyond me, except as a shock of opposites, and, as noted above, a wine like Sauternes should be enjoyed on its own as a dessert. The late and very eccentric Philippe Baron de Rothschild of Château Mouton-Rothschild once told me the only Sauternes he believed worked with foie gras was Château d’Yquem, which he stuck in the freezer until it was almost slushy. Other Sauternes, he said, as good as they might be, don’t work with foie gras. Me, I’ll save the Yquem to enjoy on its own, while listening to Saint-Saëns or Billy Holiday.

Wine with artichokes and asparagus—Pairing a wine with artichokes and asparagus is like a flamenco guitarist putting steel strings on his guitar. It just won’t work. The reason is that both vegetables contain sulfur-smelling carboxylic acid that makes wine taste awful (and your urine horrible). All wines. Every wine. But wine geeks keep trying to match up bottles with the vegetable, with the result being that the best match isn’t as bad as some others, but it’s still bad.

Red wine with cheese—The milder and fresher the cheese, like ricotta or feta, the more likely red wine may work, but definitely not with stronger cheeses, especially blues, which make red wines taste metallic. But what about the classic match of Stilton with Port? That’s a veddy British thing, and it’s pretty good but doesn’t do anything for the Port. Much better are white wines with cheese, especially big creams like Camembert and Brie.

Champagne throughout the meal—Of course you’d say this, if you are a producer of Champagne, or any sparkling wine, or if you are a Champagne idolator who would drink your favorite bubbly with Twizzlers. But as much as I love Champagne, as an aperitif, with hors d’oeuvres, with seafood and chicken, it is ridiculous to cogitate over which Champagne would go well with a char-broiled steak, lamb stew or lasagna alla bolognese. There are so many wines that go so much better with different courses in a meal, and Champagne’s prime virtue is its delicacy, which is not going to count for much under the assault of chile peppers,  ketchup or, of course, asparagus.

 

Caviar demands vintage Champagne—The old adage that you drink white wines with fish and red wines with meat is a bit dated, but it’s certainly true that red wines are horrid with fishy seafood. Which caviar often is, although the best has the aroma and taste of the briny deep without being overly fishy. But the conceit that the exquisite refinement of Russian or Iranian caviar deserves an expensive vintage Champagne as an honorable marriage is piffle. Do drink Champagne if you wish, but the true aficionado of caviar knows that vodka, with its neutral taste and aroma, is the ideal match because it does not interfere with the caviar’s delicacy. (The care taken to maintain that purity of flavor is why caviar is traditionally eaten with a mother of pearl spoon; silver has a metallic taste.) Alas, now that true Russian and Iranian caviar from the Caspian Sea is outlawed for sale, the stuff coming in from China at alarming prices isn’t worth popping a cork of vintage Champagne over.

Merlot will never be among the better wines of the world—No wine has ever been dealt a lower blow than Merlot in the comedy movie Sideways (right), when a character who fancies himself a connoisseur screams, “No, if anyone orders Merlot, I’m leaving. I am not drinking f****** Merlot!”  While obviously an absurd vow, that quote sent the California Merlot market into a tailspin for years, and you still meet plenty of ignoramuses who dismiss the idea that Merlot can ever rise to the quality level of Cabernet Sauvignon or Pinot Noir. Well, that’s not the case in Bordeaux, where one of the most prized and expensive wines in the world is produced: Château Pétrus, made from 100% Merlot. I’d also recommend any anti-Merlot drinker to try the great Merlots of Napa Valley’s Duckhorn winery, which long before Sideways had proven just how excellent the varietal can be.

A good hamburger deserves a great wine—I’m not even sure a good hamburger deserves a wine at all, although I drink the two together quite often. The rationale is that a burger is made of beef, just like a porterhouse, so if you serve a $125 Cab with the latter, why not with the former? Two reasons: Too often the American hamburger gets gussied up with way too many ingredients that will render an expensive wine less than it might be with simpler meat dishes. Second, there are so many wonderful, inexpensive red wines from so many countries—Spanish Riojas, Italian Barberas, French Beaujolais, for example—that go nicely with onions, ketchup, cheese slices, mushrooms, lettuce, chili sauce, barbecue sauce and all the stuff that goes atop the modern burger. Or you could just have a cold beer.

 

A nice white wine with salad—In a word: Vinegar. Even vinegar made from red wine. The reason you add vinegar to a salad is for its intense acid (lemon juice does the same), which brightens all the flavors of greenery but makes wine taste flat and out of place. If any wine works, it might be a rose with big floral aromatics that add another note to the spring-summer tastiness of a salad.