A Brit Goes to Timbers

"Whatz Cookin'" Mark Hunter, WhatzUp November 6, 2008

Timbers Casual Dining and Lounge, in Angola, has a slogan and this is it: "Friends don't let friends eat at chain restaurants."  As slogans go, it possesses that perfect American blend of rugged individualism and social connectedness – the lone wolf who hunts with the pack lest he starve or get trampled by a herd of caribou while trying to take down a spawning salmon. (Or is it a herd of salmon and a spawning caribou?) In any event, it's good advice. And after my recent experience at Timbers, which I found to be satisfyingly un-chain like, I've come up with a motto along a similar vein, one I hope will see me through these tough times: "Friends don't let friends get hooked into a bizarre relationship with a crazy woman named Jacqueline."

The last time I saw her Jacqueline had come into possession of a 1988 Toyota pickup truck and had begun calling herself "Kim." Now both Kim and the pickup were gone, the Toyota back to the guy who had loaned it to her "indefinitely," repossessed in the middle of the night without warning or explanation, and Kim back to less-excitable folds of Jacqueline's peculiar brain. Though acutely adventurous, I didn't mind Kim's vanishing. The reclaimed truck, however, meant that I had to once again retrieve my nutty companion from wherever it was she happened to land, which in this case was the Detroit airport. By the time I secured her re-lease from the Homeland Security box at the international arrivals terminal at DTW,  Jacqueline had slipped into some sort of jet-lag / complimentary-wine stupor.

"It's good to have you back, Jacqueline," I whispered as she drooled, slumped in the passenger seat.

The dining room at Timbers was about half full. So was the bar, where Jacqueline and I headed without comment. The interior is kind of dark and done up in an outdoorsy theme, with old skis, oars and fishing poles tacked to the walls here and there. We chose a table elevated on a platform under a large flat-screen television so that when other patrons in the bar looked at the NASCAR roundup it gave us the sense of being stared at. Still a bit groggy from her trip, she ordered a cup of coffee and a water. I ordered a glass of Cabernet, some rumaki and sashimi tuna, rare, Japanese style. The menu has a good selection of steaks, seafood, burgers and sandwiches, so it took a while to decide.

"Did you just order starters?" Jacqueline asked, her voice flecked with a slight British accent.

"No," I said. "This is America. We call them appetizers. So, I take it from your newly acquired lilt that your trip included a stop in Britain. What were you doing there?”

"Voting."

"I see," I said, popping a hot rumaki  ($7.99) in my mouth. "An expatriate act.  Nicely played."

The bacon, though blistering hot, crunched as I bit through it to the chicken liver and water chestnut within. The texture of liver, more than the taste, seems to put some people off. Not me. I tore through about six of them before dipping into the tuna ($9.99), which was cooked perfectly rare with a smattering of sesame seeds seared to the outside. Pickled ginger slices and a small dollop of wasabi completed the set. The tuna melted on my tongue while the wasabi, a rather hot version, steam-cleaned my nasal passages. The combination brought tears to my eyes. Jacqueline, still not fully there, nibbled at a rumaki and muttered something about the Queen. I ignored her and scooped up a few more slices of tuna and ordered dinner. Jacqueline wanted an 8-oz. medium rare rib-eye with mashed potatoes and gravy ($12.99). Since it was Thursday, Italian night at Timbers (Wednesday is Mexican night), I went with the seafood fettuccine Alfredo ($12.99) with lumps of crab and shrimp. The salad that came with my food consisted of iceberg lettuce and a few tomato wedges. Nothing special, but the fettuccine Alfredo was as good as any I've had. The sauce was cheesy, thick and creamy, with just the right hint of  nutmeg. And the crab chunks were real and plentiful. So were the shrimp. Jacqueline's steak, which looked bigger than 8 ounces,  was cooked as ordered and was very tender.    The mashed potatoes and gravy, which the waitress said was made on site but had the taste of a Knorr mix, were unremarkable. But Jacqueline devoured them anyway, using her utensils like a life-long Brit, scooping the potatoes onto the back of her fork with the knife.        

"What's wrong with you? Are you trying to get us beat up? Eat normally. Like an American. Who are you? Madonna?"

She waved me off with her knife and  slid a piece of meat onto her fork.

"Give us some of that wine," she said. We're getting thirsty."

I handed her the glass and ordered a Mad Anthony Oktoberfest for $2.75 a pint. That's a good deal.

We capped the meal with a slice of cheesecake and a chocolate chip cookie sundae, both of which were quite good and sufficiently large. We ate what we could and saved the rest for later.