Judith Merkintosh
Google
Lex Appeal: The Unabridged Version
In Jack Finney’s short story "Of Missing Persons" (bear with me here), a man stumbles into an unassuming travel agency and is offered a once-in-a-lifetime chance to emigrate to a mysterious, otherworldly paradise called Verna. It's beautiful, modest, and almost too good to be real.
The Lexington is Detroit’s Verna.
It’s the kind of place you hear about from someone who looks both thrilled and reluctant to even tell you, like they’re giving away a secret they shouldn’t. And when you finally step inside, you get it: the low glow of the lights, the soundtrack of animated, half-drunken conversations zig-zagging across the room, the melange of whiskey and possibility hanging in the air just so.
You’ll wonder how it’s even allowed to exist.
The Lexington isn’t just a bar; it’s a cast of characters you somehow already care about by the time the first drink sweats in your hand. Dave and Jen, the proprietors, are the Gen X power couple we all secretly hoped we’d grow up to be…or at least hoped would adopt us when our own parents fell short. Dave is the textbook definition of avuncular. His hugs cured my cancer. True story. Jen is understanding, astute, and has a memory sharp enough to make you feel seen, even if you don’t quite remember who you are that night. She seems to genuinely look out for everyone, guests included, which feels rarer than it should.
And then there’s guest star bartender, J. Rho (aka Detroit’s best friend). Just look at him. He’s the type of guy you could bring with you to the ER waiting room, and somehow it ends up being the most fun you’ve ever had.
J. Rho also hosts JRHO-KE Karaoke Night on the last Friday of every month. Many Lex participants were clearly trained at Interlochen or The Juilliard, or maybe just blessed by the gods of pitch and phrasing, because they’re shockingly good. But don’t worry; they still leave room for mere mortals on occasion. Then there’s Open Mic Night, every other Tuesday. At most bars, “Open Mic” is your cue to grab your coat and bolt, like you just spotted an ugly, suburban bachelorette party coming your way, screeching in matching sashes and wigs. Not here. At The Lex, the talent isn’t just polished, it’s intimidating. Again: what is this place?
Even the little details feel personal here. The bathroom is so well-stocked and spotless you might decide to camp out for a bit. I’m pretty sure I spotted a Fabergé egg toilet paper holder and what may or may not be a Chihuly glass sculpture. On live music nights, they’ll even hand you complimentary earplugs if you ask nicely. The patio’s been recently upgraded with cement pavers and, inexplicably, a wholesome little fleet of toy trucks waiting for the one-in-a-million toddler who might somehow make it into a 21+ establishment. Oh, and there’s a pixelated lo-fi screen behind the bar quietly letting you know what song is playing on the Spotify playlist. (Spoiler: it will never be ska. Sorry, ska fans.)
The Regulars’ Section is its own ecosystem. If you unknowingly sit in one of their spots, no one will ask you to move. But they will talk to you for the next three hours, staring gently into your soul and asking, “Are you OK? No, but are you *really* OK?” True, they’ll make a lot of weird inside jokes you won’t understand at first (big hats seem to be a recurring theme?), but sooner or later someone will loop you in. You won’t feel left out here, or like you have to survive some hazing ritual just to belong, unlike some other cities. These regulars might actually want to be your friend.
More than once, I’ve considered moving across time zones just to be closer. Not that anyone needs to know just how far Verna’s magic really goes, but I’ve heard it told that The Lex has even been known to save lives on occasion. That, however, is a story for another night.
