The Legendary Michigan Coney Dog Rivalry

In the past few months, I've come to the conclusion that Michigan may be the one state of the fifty that could successfully secede and nothing would change.

These guys have everything. They grow everything, raise everything, manufacture everything, and are so obstinently loyal to their own state and its products that they pretty much buy everything locally anyway. 

This includes their own Coney Dog.  If you ask a Michigander, they'll say their own Greek roots had the Coney first, then took it to Coney Island in New York.  And they'll tell you that it started on the corner of Lafayette Blvd and Michigan Ave in Detroit.  And then they'll tell you which one is "the true original Coney."  Which really just means which one they think tastes better.

Historically, no one really knows for sure where the Coney originated.  Most research pinpoint the hot dog was born in Detroit, concocted by Greeks who immigrated there via New York City's Ellis Island and Coney Island.  According the lovely pre-gaming ladies we consulted outside, it was the same Greek family that opened Lafayette.

Lafayette Coney Island still inhabits its original location on Lafayette and Michigan.

They weren't completely wrong, but given our information, we went into Lafayette first.

The menu at Lafayette is simple, and pretty dern cheap.

A hole-in-the-wall diner barely touches on what Lafayette Coney Island is (yet another establishment with no website. Get with the program, Michigan!).  By all accounts I can gather, the narrow, tightly packed diner hasn't changed since it's establishment in 1918.  The walls are painted a faded mint-green, the tables and chairs are places about two inches apart from its neighbor, and the place stinks of chili and cleaner.  The cooks and wait staff scream at each other over the patrons, yelling out orders in a Greek-English blend of mostly vowels.  We squeezed our way in, past the kitchen, around the corner, and seated ourselves right under a collection of autographed photos from an alumni team of Red Wings.  The waiter wandered up and we placed our order - four Coney's, one chili cheese fry, one regular fry.  He yelled the order back to the kitchen.  "Fo'ConeyEvrthingChleeFryRegFry!" About two and a half minutes later (literally), our orders slid down the table to us.

The Red Wings are on Team Lafayette.

It looked disgusting.

Lafayette Coney

Traditionally, a Coney is an all-beef hot dog on a bun, a line of yellow mustard, a spoonful of chili, and a heavy layer of fresh diced onion.  And that's what lay before me.  Here we go again, that Bucket List making me brave.  I picked up a fork (because we were going to the Fox later, and I'm a mess when it comes to food), and ate.

This was also my in-law's first trip to Lafayette and American.

I was non-plussed. It wasn't terrible.  But I don't think I'll be going back.  The chili was runny, a gross-creamy-brown color and on the sweet side (which seems to be par for the course for Midwestern chili), the hot dog was mediocre, there were far too many onions for my taste, and the bun was pretty chewy.  But this stuff is legend.  For some reason.  We ate, paid, and went next door.

American moved into a larger location on the opposite side
of Lafayette a few years ago, now on the corner of the building.

Yep. You heard me. Next door.  To American Coney Island, Lafayette's rival. (Who's website was "not found" at the time that I wrote this blog. REALLY, guys?!) 

As it turns out, there are a couple versions of how these two restaurants came to be.  The more popular is, of course, more dramatic, and involves a blow out argument between two Greek immigrant brothers over a chili recipe.  To get back at the elder, the younger opened American next door with a differing chili recipe, and said "let the customer's decide who's better!"  But if you ask the current owner of American, this version is a tall tale.  The truth, she says, as a direct descendant of the founder of American Coney, is that American was established in 1917 by her great grandfather, and that he invited his brother to join him in America.  When his brother arrived, he opened Lafayette next door with an alternative approach to both the chili as well as the hot dog.  No sibling rivalry to mention (yeah, right). Lafayette has changed hands since opening, and the two joints are no longer owned by relations, but continue to butt heads in the battle for the "Best Coney."

American has obviously been recently renovated, but in the style of a mid-century diner - like something out of Grease.  Checkered floors, red tables and chairs, swirly fluorescent signs with chrome-lined counters.  The place was pretty empty, which was surprising since its neighbor was crawling with people.  But it was a Friday, so perhaps everyone was in search of a Fish Fry.

Our waiter was pleasant, and spoke clear English (so he never had to repeat himself - but one could argue that's not nearly as much fun).  We placed the same order, this time with chili and cheese on both orders of fries.  He quietly walked back to the open kitchen, and brought our food back within five minutes.  My sensitive tummy and I breathed a sigh of relief.  

American Coney

The menu at American had a few more options.

The chili was pretty good!

The difference was obvious.  The chili was thicker, had a deeper, more chestnut tone to it, and wasn't nearly as sweet.  Still too many onions, but the char on the hot dog made it juicy and tender, and the bun seemed like it perhaps came out of a fresh bag recently.  Much better.  The four of us agreed that American won the taste test, be it "The Original Coney" or not.  We were not alone in this conclusion, joining the ranks of the experts from The Food Network on team American, but Travel Channel seems to side with Lafayette for the age-old environment (which has it's entertaining "no ketchup on my coney" charms).

At Lafayette, the waiter told my MIL "No Ketchup!"
She did it anyway. At both locations.

Team American right here, folks!

So if you're looking to test out the rivalry yourself, Lafayette has the environment - loud, Greek, and old, but American has the tastier dog - grilled, fresh, and meaty.  

What Michigan food should I try next?!

A Michigan Friday Fish Fry

You guys know that song "Always On My Mind?"  The one that was originally a country song that has been re-recorded by Elvis Presley, Willie Nelson, and the Pet Shop Boys?

Well, I'm at least 98% certain it's the song that exemplifies my husband's relationship with fried fish over the past twelve years.

Every restaurant we grace with our presence gets scrutinized by his hungry Michigander eyes, in hunt for the glorious "fish and chips" on the menu.  And if it's there, he then begins the incessant debate - chance it, in the hopes of finally discovering someone who knows how to adequately fry a fish filet? Or go the safe build-your-own fiery taste of hell cheeseburger?  More often than not, the cheeseburger won.  Nothing could compare to Michigan's fish.

Needless to say, the past several years of our growing relationship has been an incessant chorus of "Just wait 'til you try it - you'll see.  Michigan has the best fried fish."

"Yea yea, yadda yadda.  Fried fish is fried fish is fried fish - it all tastes the same."

Oh how sweetly ignorant I was.

When we visited Michigan last August to find a house, Matt sampled some central Michigan fried perch.  I took a bite, and my expectations were not met.  In fact, the stuff was gross.  Significantly worse than most fried fish I've had before.  Limp, rubbery, and tasteless. He heaved a sad sigh, hanging his head in disappointment as he picked at his soggy fries, and I contemplated his sanity and the credibility of his tastes (surprisingly, generally pretty good).  After we moved, we tried again at a well-rated sports bar near our house. Again, limp. Rubbery. Tasteless.  I'm a foodie.  I thrive on sampling a wide variety of flavors and techniques - it makes me all warm and bubbly.  We were but a couple months into this crazy cross-country move, and literally everything I had eaten in Michigan outside of my mother-in-law's house was awful. How am I ever going to survive up here when they fail at even their own specialty?!

Then Lent arrived, and Matt mentioned visiting his childhood favorite place for fried fish.  With the last two experiences still fresh on my starving tastebuds, I was skeptical.  Alas, the Michigan Bucket List gives me courage and a sense of adventure, so I agreed to make the two-hour trek to Adair Bar in Casco, Michigan.

Adair is located on St. Clair in Casco, Michigan, a small town on the southeast side of the Lower Peninsula.
(Kinda near the bottom of the thumb.)

My in-laws insisted we get there early, since it was Friday and it's Lent.  (For those unfamiliar with the Catholic tradition, this is why Michigan is allegedly the master of frying fish - they have a lot to fry, thanks to the lakes, and it's all they could eat on the "Fish Fridays" of Lent - no meat allowed.)  It was still light out as my Father-In-Law dropped us off at the door to go search for a parking spot, but their concern quickly proved valid - the bar was already packed.  Thankfully, we beat the major crowd by about ten minutes and were seated just as the masses flooded the entry way.

Diners come for the fish, and remember it for the fish, and talk about the fish... But Adair is known for it's larger-than-life-size wooden statue of fish diners.

Placing our orders almost immediately, my mother-in-law filled me in on the history of Adair's famous fish-feasting wood carving, evidently dating back to the 1800's.  I'd link you to the website so you can read about it, but they don't have one. (Another observation of Michigan - this is the second wildly popular restaurant I've encountered today that has no website - the madness! You can, however, find them on Facebook.) She also explained why our previous attempts had failed - the fish wasn't fresh.  Here, we were so close to the lake, the fish we'd be feasting on was probably caught last night.

The waiter overheard us talking about the history of the statue,
and was kind enough to bring us this old menu to read about it.

Or, perhaps, after we ordered.  It took forever.

By the time those golden nuggets arrived to our table, we were starving.  Some small, snobby voice in my head pondered at why mobs of hungry patrons were willing to wait an hour to be seated, and then an additional 45 minutes to be served.

This is the "large" Perch plate.  It was far too much.

And then I took a bite.  And the world made sense again.

An exterior salty, crispy crust yielded to tender, buttery, flaky Perch - the most common of the fresh water fish to fry.  It was heaven.  And it came with sides of a creamy, but still crunchy cole slaw (not too much sugar, not too much vinegar), and hot, crisp steak fries.

This is a Southerner thing - cole slaw is a side dish as well as a condiment.

It was heaven in a poorly lit, crowded hole-in-the-wall, no website fish fry bar.

Guys, my husband was right.  So right, I'm willing to put it in writing and disperse it across the whole internet.  I have seen the light.  The gorgeous, golden-brown, battered light. There is nothing like fried freshwater fish in the thumb of Michigan.

If and when we move again, that song is going to be a chorus for the both of us.

But for now, Adair bar and lower Michigan fried fish has another evangelist.


Read about my only other positive Michigan food experience so far here.