Ann Arbor Observer – July, 2005

By:  Bix Engels

NORTHFIELD ROADHOUSE – HONEST AMERICAN FOOD

There’s a certain uniformity to eating out nowadays, and not just with fast food.  In upscale restaurants from New York to London, Los Angeles, or Barcelona, the same exquisite dish might be served on the same expensive china.  But there are still places that follow their own paths.  Elizabeth Mericas, a predecessor of mine in this column, steered me to the Northfield Roadhouse, where I recently landed after a couple of weeks abroad.  What I got at this Whitmore Lake-area blues-and-biker bar was honest American food, well cooked, well priced and with out pretense.

“Folks, this is southern picnic food,” proclaims the menu.  That means ribs, barbecued chicken, and po’boys.  Let’s start with those ribs – a whole slab, if you please, of pork ribs slow-roasted to delectable tenderness with a complete sweet-savory spice rub that hints of cinnamon, brown sugar, and Mediterranean herbs, and finished on a grill with a spritz of bourbon.  Instead of choosing a single sauce, we tried all three on the side-a Texas-style hot with a substantial kick (my own favorite), a mild Memphis one that to me had a hint of North Carolina-style vinegar, and an appealing sweet Michigan version that had a complex fruitiness recalling a plum sauce.  Ribs and sauces are made in house by the chef, Chris Sirvinskis, who also occasionally takes to the stage with his blues band.

Sirvinskis is also the author of the utterly fabulous gumbo and a fine jambalaya.  The two dishes have similar ingredients – onions, green peppers, smoky andouille sausage, shrimp and rice.  While both are brightly seasoned, the gumbo has serious head-clearing heat (though some classicists may want more of a roux).  These spices are not blandified for the generic palate.  However, the kitchen, which opened only in January, can be uneven.  The jambalaya was almost soupy one visit; the next it was more like a risotto or paella.  A barbecued chicken was barely sauced and moderately smoky one evening, then seriously spicy and charred the next.  On three different visits, the restaurant ran out of the homemade apple crisp.

The side dishes are uniformly delicious.  Among them are heavenly collards – ever so slightly bitter (as they should be0, devoid of the grit that can spoil the dish, cooked with bacon, and seasoned with vinegar – a wonderful complement to the ribs or chicken. So too are the slightly sweet baked beans, whose deep red-brown color comes from long, slow baking.  The French fries are cut from real, fresh potatoes and fried to a golden brown; an onion rings appetizer provides more evidence of a skilled hand at a deep fryer.  The coleslaw is fresh and crisp and heavy on the mayo, while the succotash brings together fresh corn, limas, okra, and red peppers in a light cream sauce.

Sandwiches and salads make up a good portion of the concise menu.  The shrimp po’boy was a knockout.  Plump deep-fried shrimp are stuffed into a soft French roll with a creamy dressing and pico de gallo sauce.  I generally prefer a crustier bread, but this package came together extremely well.  Another surprise was the salads.  The Northfield Roadhouse is built around a first-rate mesclun that includes radicchio, dandelion greens, baby arugula, oak leaves, and spinach topped with a hearty portion of real, house-smoked turkey.  For added interest the chef tossed in pecans, sliced clementines, red onion and blueberries.  The fruit-nut additions give the salad a surprising flavor-texture pop.  Although a second entrée-size salad, the Highway 61, did not reach the heights of the Northfield Roadhouse salad, it was still good, with its interesting southern ingredients-ungummy okra, corn, and lima beans.  Both dressings I sampled were outstanding:  the house-made berry vinaigrette hit the right sweet-sour note, and the (again, house-made) Gorgonzola combined the tang of blue-veined cheese with a good dose of cayenne.

The ambience might be described as classic biker bar, although the clientele also includes a good number of local rural families, artsy students, and a few strays from suburbia (I’m not sure what it means demographically, but we counted just three foreign0brand vehicles, two Hondas and a Volvo, in the full parking lot).  In case you pack a laptop on your Harley, the Roadhouse is a wi-fi hot spot. Gorgeously tattooed servers, easygoing but absolutely efficient, steered us well to such treats as the citrusy Blue Moon ale on tap that plays beautifully off the spicy dishes.

Live bands provide the music on Sunday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, and on the other nights discs by anyone from Van Morrison to Charlie Musselwhite could infuse the mood.  Decorating touches include rough wood paneling that looks as if it came from the scrap pile, a tiny Elvis with outstretched arms hanging like a crucifix above the bar, and windows with a view of the neighboring Shell station and US-23.  There’s too much smoke, although it’s tolerable in the somewhat ventilated nonsmoking section.

If you can’t deal with the smoke, most of the food travels well and is available for takeaway.  But even those who choose the carryout route may want to arrive a little early to hear at least one set of live music, as I did on a Sunday evening.  That night the Blue Plate Specials were playing, fronted by Chef Chris, a seriously goateed bear of a man alternately growling out blues vocals and sucking manically on a harmonica.  If you’re lucky, the might do his signature tune, “You’re Going to Jail and Your Car Is Too.”  You won’t hear anything like that in Paris.