EGDunns Restaurant Observer, Volume XLVI

The Arena -- $$
Fourth & Washington, Ann Arbor, Michigan

Of all the people who have ever counted the concerted consumption of alcohol
among their preferred activities, it is likely very few never considered opening their own
restaurant or tavern at some point in their, ahem, careers. In the aspirations of their
designers, these establishments -- invariably located on the most prominent corners of the
entertainment districts of towns -- draw taps from the widest array of foreign lands and
local microbreweries, feature an impeccable decor, the latest in high-tech video games and
the hottest wait staff in town, every song in the jukebox is a hand-picked jewel of musical
splendor, the bartender has three hands (one for shakin, one for stirrin, and one to light
your smoke), the coolest bands play every Friday and the male-female ratio never dips
below 3:2. If only it were so easy possible.
For most, the Im-gonna-open-my-own-bar-someday idea travels no further than a
handful of drunken conversations among friends equally ambitious in their intoxication
(and who, it is usually agreed, are to be ones partners in the future enterprise). For most
others, the personal tavern concept loses its luster upon the first serious consideration of
commercial leases, payroll taxes, the Liquor Control Commission, zoning, dram shop
liability, and the inevitable crises of vandalism, violence, and vomit that are part and parcel
of the food and beverage industry. Even some who progress beyond this gateway lose
heart as their personal appetites for booze and chaos subside, or as bar ownership simply
slides down the priority list on a practical household budget. Given these obstacles, tavern
ownership for the few left standing signifies a progression closer to the realization of
childhood dreams than measured entrepreneurial endeavor.
And that, unfortunately, is what makes The Arena such a tragedy. For all the hurdles
and hoops, for all the snake pits and booby traps and land mines, for all the goblins and
gremlins and swirling storms of fear, the dream is supposed to come true. But what if it
doesnt? What if there is no pot of gold this end of the bow, no brain or heart or courage,
no fairy princess kisses, not even a good basket of wings? So dream about something else.
Quite distinct from rainbow-chasing, The Arena is a product of the proprietors
bellicose mid-life crisis. A plainly transparent man, full-time bald and insincere smiling, he
sits beside the waitress station at the foot of his own bar and mercilessly scopes the ladies.
Then, with all the game of a Trekkie or a civil war reenactment (or a Trekkie AT a civil war
reenactment), he makes his move. And though its nothing anyone whose ever been to a
Have A Nice Day Cafe
TM
hasnt seen before, watching an Old Spiced mature man throw
down his shot and instruct the bar tender to cover [me] before pitching his shtick on a
table of mean 22s is still downright comedy, and it always will be. Go back the bar, get
some more balls.
Besides its jackass proprietor, The Arenas first problem is a serious case of the
WRICIDs, which for those who dont recall is an acronym for Whack Restaurant Identity
Crisis Indecision Disorder.[i] To illustrate, The Arena isnt shy about pimping itself as a
bona fide campus sports bar -- complete with drink specials advertised on the outdoor
Budweiser
TM
tarp, karaoke Saturdays and a pair of cinema-sized projection screens. On the
inside, however, Arena staff swiftly usher incoming guests to tables preordained by tipping
needs and ready-stocked with napkin-wrapped silverware; menus are obligatory, so much
for the giddy-up. Of course, if youve seen The Arenas typical crowds, youd know it
doesnt matter anyway.
Despite the imposing physical size, you wont find anything remarkable on those
laminated multi-folds -- just the typical deep-fried appetizers, sandwiches and the standard
US corporatized Mexican offerings. The Observer will ordinarily abide a mundane menu,
especially from a bar, but The Arenas lack of acknowledgment disappoints at a level
beyond approaching the pathetic. Take the chicken strip, for instance. It is common
knowledge that virtually every legitimate food-serving sports bar in this country with
access to poultry serves some variety of the chicken strip -- a battered and deep-fried cut of
chicken, usually presented with a choice of sauces for dipping. Whether known as the
chicken strip, chicken finger, wing ding, chicken dipper, boneless chicken wing,
chicken nugget, or any other name, chicken strip is, by now, a fixture on the sports bar
menu. Nevertheless, The Arena has seen fit to include the following joke on its menu,
beside the listing of chicken strips: Weve never seen a chicken strip (v.) either!
Well if that isnt just a barrel of laughs. Ha ha ha. Oh, but the fun doesnt stop there -
- the talented scriveners who drafted The Arenas bill of fare kick in a joke for every other
menu item as well, complimentary rim shots and all. Its enough to keep you laughing all
night long! The buffalo wings joke is my favorite: We replaced the traditional buffalo
ingredient and used chicken instead! Ooh, good one. Its amazing how talented some
people are. Better hurry on over to The Arena so you dont miss any more of their great
menu jokes.
Of course, its difficult to enjoy half-ass menu jokes sipping on a watered-down
bourbon, but thats life at The Arena. A mortal sin in the Observers book, but heres how it
happens: Sturz, our blank-brained server who erroneously attempted to overcome a
creeping lack of competence with traffic/weather and whereya from smalltalk, is given
careful, straightforward instructions from the Observers own mouth: glass aKnob.
Sturz, undoubtedly fresh off a bender and obligatory schwag tokes in the parking lot,
interprets the instructions as bourbon & water, and passes the order on to Bruce, whose
mere employment at The Arena proves a profound lack of respect for single-barrel
bourbon or any clue how to drink it. Consequently, Bruce fills the order by scooping a load
of ice cubes into a low-ball, pouring the shot, and topping the glass with tap water. Asshole.
But thats what you get.
Stirring that around, the Observer noted The Arenas next major shortcoming -- a
manifest unwillingness to proclaim its allegiance to the Maize and Blue. Not that there are
State flags or ND helmets or other blasphemy on the premises, but The Arena is decidedly
neutral in its affiliations, a status unforgivable in a downtown Ann Arbor sports bar. While
Touchdowns and Skeepers may be no role models, at least their patrons are comforted to
know that any yahoo to walk in wearing silver & gray will be wished (and depending on the
score and time of day may receive) a well-deserved ass kicking. The Arena, however,
makes no such promises. No life-sized Desmonds, no Michigan offense murals, no
conspicuous M flags or other signs of UM dominance. Indeed, with so few Blue fans in the
fold, one cant help but wonder if The Arenas fence-sitting is deliberate -- avoiding the
alienation of visiting fans so as to snag their pre- and post-game dollars, perhaps. For The
Arenas sake, one hopes not.
The Observer will proceed no further down that path, such charges being far too
grave for pure speculation. So moving on to the actual food, all of which will be discussed
en masse given Sturzs executive decision to forego the typical nicety of serving the soup &
salad before the entree and simply bringing everything all together, a kind word might
actually be written of The Arena. To begin with, The Arena delivered as promised on
Norms Georgia Rueben. Say what you will about The Arenas failure to offer the Georgia
without a standard Rueben (in that the standard Rueben tastes better, and any health
advantages to the Georgia version must necessarily be of negligible concern given that the
Georgia Rueben is itself a toasted sandwich with cheese and thousand island, and is served
with a plate of french fries), but the Georgia came through with a fine mess of turkey and
fat clump of kraut on a deli-fied pump-rye swirl.
Stage right to the Observer, Theresa dug into The Arenas stock pub-quality grilled
chicken breast sandwich with lettu-mato topping, a dish notable only in that it called
attention to The Arenas distinct lack of condiment options. Given the recent national trend
in which even the daintiest and most pre-sauced of foods come with an obligatory tray, box,
case, or other container bearing at least one ketchup, two mustards, four hot sauces, malt
vinegar, crushed red pepper flakes, parmesan cheese, salt, pepper grinder, and a bottle of
mysterious green, The Arena disappointed, stealing a table out of Alices Roadside: salt &
ketchup only, pepper from the shaker.
Switching from the fowl to a southern soul method, Anthony sampled The Arenas
Pork B-B-Q Sandwich, a sloppy selection of pulled ursine drenched in the sweet tangy. In
maintaining its low-impact theme, however, the B-B-Q dipped low on the spice-ometer and
filled a chew-brown bun straight outta angel food. Tasty though, very tasty.
As for the Observer, the choice was Monte Cristo -- the classic ham & cheese &
turkey in deep-fried french toast, sauced with a raspberry jel and sprinkled with the candy
classic. Granted, a sandwich featuring those ingredients is virtually impossible to mis-
make, but despite a golden brown dropped a bit more brown than golden and the
Observers deep breath, Sturz & Co. pulled it out on time. Its true what they say, that
sometimes a good product will sell itself. Keeping on the deep-fryer tip, The Arena also
deserves props for a fine-fingered french fry thats tickled into spice and crisp on the lip.
Rounding out the meal, Norm dutifully attacked a bowl of The Arena onion soup,
which soaked through a whitecheese mallow-wad like acetone through styrofoam, but I
hear hes doing okay. Meanwhile, a forlorn pair of dinner salads from the high school
cafeteria family went largely uneaten, the iceberg lettuces and wax-back cherry tomatoes
making a mockery of raspberry vinaigrette. Thats alright, Arena, keep that Wishbone
acomin.
By the time wed eaten our meals, The Arena had dimmed its lights for karaoke
night, and Sturz cashed us out after dropping off a laminated sing-along blackbook. We
paged through to scout the selections (which, to summarize, went a little something like:
too much Brittany, too little Duran Duran, just enough Ton Loc and all I can say was the P.E.
page must have been torn out), then called it a night when the first drunken sailor chose
Billy Joels You May Be Right. I may be crazy.


Overall Ratings (out of five stars):
The Arena
Food......................................* * *
Service...................................*
Atmosphere.........................*
Cleanliness............................* * * *
Portions................................* * * *
Character..............................*
Overall............................*

Best Dish We Had: Monte Cristo
Worst: Tossed Salad
What to Try Next: Another Bar


[1] Ordinarily the Observer would simply refer yall to Vol. 10 (Woodward Avenue Brewers) for an
explanation of WRICID, but I do realize its been a while; WRICID refers to the most unfortunate condition
that afflicts those joints that cant decide whether to be a bar or a restaurant, and as a result fail to succeed
in either role.