We were young, we were adventurous, wanting still more fun, more music, and conversation. It was just too early to go home. After all it was only 1 a.m. The night was still young and with no work the next day, we could sleep in late. Destination: Monroe Street in downtown Detroit’s Greektown.
After a sequestered life of all school and no play, I found myself as an unworldly young adult with a great secretarial job at General Motors and an income that could support the purchase of my own transportation. My first car was a used two-tone turquoise and white 1955 Ford convertible, affordable because I lived at home. To do otherwise was unthinkable and never occurred to me.
Free at last! Free at last! That ragtop gave me, the claustrophobic, the mobility and freedom of fresh air hitting my face. Just like I experienced as a 10-year-old going down Prospect St. hill, hands free from the handle bars on my blue and white Western Flyer bicycle. That’s as daring as I ever got.
Being in the Armenian Youth Federation (AYF) changed things. Our Pontiac “Aharonian” Chapter frequently had socials with the Detroit “Mourad-Zavarian” and Highland Park “Christopher” Chapters. We became friends and soon after Saturday night dances the call would go out, “Let’s go to Greektown!”
My father had warned me about Greektown. In the early days before the proliferation of stores catering to the tastes of Middle Eastern type people, there was Greektown’s Delmar where you could buy everything an Armenian family could need to prepare our particular cuisine. My parents would shop there, and from dad’s conversations I understood Monroe St. was also a place of ill repute. Gambling went on there and it was frequented by women with a loose reputation.
Dad told me in no uncertain terms, “Chella vor hon ertas” (You are not allowed to go there).
I was an innocent led there first by my AYF friends for very late-night Greek salads and sandwiches. I revealed my secret to my mother about my trek to the forbidden Monroe St. loaded with delicious restaurants like the Laikon, Golden Fleece, Pegasus, and New Parthenon, frequented in those days by mostly ethnics like me.
The big glass storefronts usually harbored loads of green plants trying their best to survive the sunless Michigan winters. Looking in you could see tables full of diners enjoying sumptuous meals no matter what the weather was. Street parking was always a challenge.
In my later married years, the International became a family favorite after attending services at St. Sarkis Church. My husband Bob, myself, and our two young sons would be greeted there by handsome middle-aged Bill, the waiter always neatly dressed in a black tuxedo. We ordered the wonderful roasted lamb sandwich dinners that came with salad, browned potatoes, rice streamed with tomato sauce, and the best-ever Greek bread. Dinner was always topped off with creamy, thick rice pudding sprinkled with cinnamon. My teenagers had a bottomless stomach.
I know my mother reassured my father of my occasional trips there and he never uttered one word of objection to me. I was with Armenians, and I guess that made it alright.
We had so much fun eating those delicious Greek salads and watching the flaming Saganaki arrive at the table. “Oopa!” the waiter would shout as he squeezed lemon juice on the Kayseri cheese. It was before the casinos arrived into town. We were not in the market for fancy martinis, just clean fun.
Herman Torigian often escorted my cousin Clara Apigian and myself to Greektown for after-dance dinners. The world was Herman’s oyster and he loved being with the AYF crowd. He never got old.
Besides the belly dancers, one of Greektown’s colorful features was “Stella” who would walk Monroe St. carrying a night stick and would threateningly shout in Greek as she walked passed you. The first time that happened it was alarming, but then you discovered she was a local legend and not actually dangerous. This went on for decades. It was only when she died at age 95 in January 2010 that I found out her last name was Paris.
It was said she was born in Greece and had arrived in the U.S. with a “fixed” marriage that was an unhappy one for her, so she took on an unusual lifestyle.
Although offered living quarters, Stella preferred to live on the street. She bathed at the nearby Beaubien Precinct police station and used their washroom for washing her clothes. She was always dressed in a military-looking outfit with stripes she had sewn on her sleeve. Something resembling medals were on her chest. You didn’t dare stop to get a better look. Her wrath could open up on you. She was very thin with graying hair. Area merchants were kind to her, making sure she had enough to eat. Her last few years were spent in a nursing home.
Greektown will never be the same without its Stella. She was someone you actually looked for when going there for the dining experience. Even the media gave full blown reports on her demise, knowing generations of suburbanites and Detroiters were familiar with the colorful shouting woman bearing the name “Greektown Stella.” Her legend lives on in this gritty car-loving city of Detroit.
Betty Apigian-Kessel
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Those were indeed the days. I remember sneaking to Greek town with my friends. We were 16 or 17 years old at the time. We just couldn’t get enough of the live music. I became so hooked that I decided to learn how to play the Oud. My brother Tommy (dumbeg) and I were in the original Arax band. You might remember us! We were the first Armenian band to play at the Stockade Nightclub onThursday nights. We also played for weddings and dances from the mid 1950’s through the mid 1960’s. Art melkonian on the clarinet, Cory Tossoian on sax, Adam Manoogian on dumbeg, and singer Eddie Arvanigian rounded out the band with Tommy and me. I’ll bet lot’s of your readers will remember those days as well. I hope they all log on with their stories and memories of Greek Town and the fantastic sense of community we enjoyed in those days. Thanks for reminding us of the great times we had.
Berge, how come I don’t know you? I went to the Stockade on Friday nights. What a shame we don’t have some place like that to go to now. At this stage in life, our generation could use the shot in the arm another “Armenian Night” would give us. A little night music and a few drinks would liven us up!
Betty, we met on the AHC 2009. My wife Terry and I made a powerpoint presentation about the Humanitarian Outreach Foundation. And BTW, as a writer yourself, you might enjoy reading my newly published book. My web site is http://www.livingthepowerofchoice.com. You can write to me at bminasianpowerofchoice@gmail.com. You must know Kelly the oud player from pontiac & Mitch the editor. Herman”s family and mine were very close as we all lived in Highland Park. If you ask around I’m sure you will find some couples who enjoyed our music at their weddings. It was the Golden age as the WWII boys were returning and we had weddings almost weekly. Yes, those were the days!
It was nice to read your article. My family owned Delmar, my father being Leo the proprioter and so called “Mayor of Greektown.” My grandparents lived above the store and I only went downtown maybe every 6 weeks or so, during the 60’s and up until the late 70’s when I went away to college. I’m finally learning a little about the ‘Old Days’ in Greektown and it’s reputation as a gambling street with ladies of ill repute. I was a suburban kid and didn’t really hang in a city until moving to Chicago from 84 till last year. Now it’s not the same. Oh well, such is life.
My Mother and I created TRAPPER”S ALLEY in 1972. My best friend was Gus Anton owner of the NEW HELLAS CAFE. Stella worked for a while doing odd jobs at the restaurant and was quite pleasant once you got to know her. Most of what was Greektown is gone but such is life.
I knew Mr. Anton. My father and he grew up in Greektown as the sons of the original business settlers. I talked to Gus in 2005 when I stopped by New Hellas after a Tiger game. Upon Leaving I introduced myself and asked him how Greektown was. He sighed and told me that everyone is in the casinos and the only people out on the street are the bums. When he died, my father stopped by the Funeral Home to pay his respects. I remember the old Trapper’s Alley with the upright piano outside in the alley itself, a candle shop, art, etc. My sister went to the restaurant, Santorini, last night. It’s where our family store, Delmar, used to be. She got a tour of the back and the only part was familiar was the garage part and the level in the back where my Great Uncle Mike Copulos died Easter Eggs back in the 60’s. Yeah, its all memories now, but like you said, such is life. Opa!
Bill, I talked with your father quite often. Iwonder if he would remember me? Delmar was the place to buy pistachio nuts in the paper wrappings and also the place to take out-of-town visitors to buy authentic Greek merchandise. Unlike most other businesses in Greektown, Delmar had many items that didn’t consist of something to eat. At least we have our memories. My best to you and your family.
Yes, my dad had to think for a second but he said “Yes, Sonne. They were the original ones at Trapper’s Alley”. He said to wish you and your family the best. He still has his sense of humor and said “The memory is old, but it came back!” He still drives around several hundered miles per week promoting Greek food as a broker. Not bad at 82:)