In Search of Jimmy Hoffa

Andiamo Bloomfield
6676 Telegraph Rd.
Bloomfield Hills, MI




I’m standing in the rain-soaked parking lot of Andiamo in Bloomfield, Michigan -- site of one of the greatest unsolved mysteries of the 20th Century.

This was the exact spot from which notorious Teamster boss Jimmy Hoffa disappeared on a steamy July afternoon 39 years ago.

What happened to the most infamous union boss in American history?

He’s buried under a parking garage in Cadillac…

…Or under a sanitation building in Hamtramck...

…Or under the 50 yard line at Giants Stadium…

…Or under some mafia dude’s mother-in-law’s drive way in Detroit…

…Or he was fed into a wood chipper…

…Or carried off to a landfill in a 55 gallon drum…

Nobody knows.


Or at least nobody who does know is saying.

Despite countless FBI investigations, false confessions, documentaries, movies starring Jack Nicholson and attention seekers spewing conspiracy theories galore, the mystery endures.

So did I come here to this godforsaken suburban hell of the most godforsaken metropolitan area of America to solve this mystery myself?

Or did I come here because it was lunch time and I was hungry?

Maybe a bit of both.

This infamous restaurant is now one those over-priced expense account chain steakhouses with valet parking flanked by a strip mall in the vast suburban morass north of Detroit.

Definitely not the kind of place Suit757 normally seeks out for lunch.

But I just had to check the joint out.

It was lunch time, I was hungry, I had a few hours to kill -- and I was stuck in Detroit.

What else was I going to do?

It’s not like the alternative entertainment options for guys wearing suits on a Thursday afternoon in Detroit are all that compelling.

In fact, Andiamo might just be the only tourist attraction in the entire Detroit metro area.

If so, Andiamo is not doing much to capitalize on it.

Thirty-nine years later, there is no more sign of Jimmy Hoffa at Andiamo than there was the afternoon he disappeared.

It’s almost like the new owners of the building are ashamed of its history.

Then again, that’s easy to understand.

Jimmy Hoffa came here on July 30, 1975 at 2pm to meet three mobbed up Teamster buddies for lunch at what was then the Red Fox Restaurant.

Hoffa was angling to get his old job back after spending eight years in prison for bribing a jury in a corruption trail brought on by Hoffa’s arch nemesis Democrat Attorney General Robert Kennedy.

Of course, the Republicans, sensing an opportunity and always willing to suck up to their union boss enemies, jumped in bed with the Teamsters.

(Some things never change: Republican House Majority Leader Eric Cantor just headlined a fundraiser on Amelia Island for a union front group created solely to defeat pro-Right to Work Republicans. When GOP primary voters in his district found out about it, they tossed Cantor out of Congress a few weeks later in one of the greatest upsets in American political history.)


GOP President Richard Nixon commuted the rest of Hoffa’s prison sentence in exchange for an agreement that Hoffa would keep his hands off the Teamsters -- and that the Teamsters would endorse Republican candidates for the next decade or so.

Of course, the day Hoffa walked out of prison he immediately began scheming to get his old job back, correctly surmising that Nixon wouldn’t have the balls to challenge him.

But one group that was willing to stand up to Hoffa was the group that controlled the Teamsters -- the Mafia. And they had no interest whatsoever in Hoffa sticking his nose back into their business.

After all, the business of running a union is good…

…a government granted license to extract from the pockets of workers billions of dollars per year in union dues that can be spent on paid-for politicians, tropical resorts, limousine lifestyles and fancy steakhouse lunches at swanky joints like Andiamo.

Life as a union boss is good.

Under federal law, if workers object to how their dues are collected or spent, they have exactly two options:

1) Pay up

or

2) Get fired.

Billions of dollars. No accountability.

That’s the kind of business mobsters love.

Hoffa’s mob buddies stood him up for 45 minutes while Hoffa waited in the Red Fox parking lot fuming.

At some point Hoffa went inside to use the pay phone and may or may not have had a drink at the bar.

Finally, at 2:45pm, witnesses at the Red Fox saw Hoffa get into a car with several other men.

No one ever saw him again.

As you can imagine, for years the Red Fox enjoyed a certain morbid notoriety.


Eventually, the long-time owner sold the place in 1996 and the building was transformed into one of a chain of ten Detroit area Andiamos.

While the place has certainly modernized over the past four decades, I can definitely see Jimmy Hoffa and his mob buddies gulping martinis and sawing on 25 ounce porterhouse steaks here.

White tablecloths. Dark lighting. White men in tailored navy suits tossing valet boys the keys to the Caddy.

Andiamo is still THAT kind of place.

“No thanks. I’ll just sit at the bar.”

That’s what I told the perky hostess.

Even if it is a work day and I’m drinking nothing stronger than Detroit tap water, I’d rather sit by myself at the bar.

From my bar perch, I scoped the place out.

I’m not sure what I was looking for.

The bar stool where Hoffa regularly drank?

The reception room where current Teamster boss Jimmy Hoffa, Jr. held his wedding reception?

The famous phone booth from which Hoffa placed his last call?

Obviously, any and all such artifacts are long gone -- probably decades ago.

Andiamo doesn’t sell t-shirts with Hoffa’s face on it, either.

But I couldn’t help looking and wondering.

That’s the nature of a great mystery.

All of us can play a bit of Sherlock Holmes since no one else has figured it out yet.

I couldn’t help but ask the bar tender, Karen, about the mystery.

She said she’s worked there for years. She has lots of old timer regulars who date back to Hoffa’s days -- some who drank with him at this very bar back in the Red Fox days.

And a few who even claim to have been here that fateful day 39 years ago.

“Some say he had a drink at the bar. Others say he sat at a table by the fireplace. A few swear he never came in except to use the pay phone,” she said.

Then she took a quick glance around, hunched a little closer and said in a semi-hushed Michigan accent, “A lot of them think Hoffa’s son-in-law did it.”

Hmmm.

Another twist to add to the mystery.

Of course I wasn’t really here to solve some unsolvable mystery.

I was at Andiamo because I needed to eat the only meal I was going to get that day.

I wasn’t about to pay $25 for a lunch-sized steak, so I stuck to the Italian portion of the lunch menu.

First came a clam stew with loads of onions, celery, peppers and spice. Delicious, but a bit sparse on the clams.

The Italian bread with oil and garlic was top notch as you’d expect.

My lasagna was a tall pile of very thin pasta layered with melted cheese. The only meat was provided by the Bolognese sauce ladled on top.

Maybe I’m a little biased toward my mother’s homemade lasagna but I like thick noodles with lots of meat and cheese embedded in my lasagna.

I suppose that is unsophisticated to the suit-wearing Italians at Andiamo, but my mom will be happy to hear I still like her version best.

Of course I couldn’t pass up a side link of Andiamo’s homemade Italian sausage.

Thick with lots of fennel and seasoning, it was well worth the $3 surcharge.

Remember, one can never have too much meat.

My meal was pretty tasty. But I had to admit that wasn’t really the reason I came here today.

I don’t make a habit of hanging out in expensive suburban valet parking Italian chain restaurants.

I was here to immerse myself in an historical mystery -- and to wonder what Jimmy Hoffa would think of his old hang out if he were still here to see it.

While Hoffa would probably fit right in with the two martini lunch crowd, I’m pretty sure his big mobster head would explode if anyone told him his home state just became America’s latest Right to Work state a little over a year ago.

In a case of “when all else fails, do the right thing”, after decades of losing jobs to Right to Work states, Michigan politicians finally stripped the state’s union bosses of their government guaranteed power to force Michigan workers to pay union dues.

The half billion dollars per year union bosses like Jimmy Hoffa, Jr. had been collecting from Michigan workers by force is no longer guaranteed by state law.

Jimmy Sr.’s little boy -- and all of Michigan’s other union bosses -- now have to collect dues from workers voluntarily.

What a concept.

No wonder Jimmy Jr. declared “Civil War” the day the Governor signed the Right to Work bill.

But the days of acting like a mobbed up thug are over for the Hoffa family now that they finally have to be accountable to the workers they’ve always claimed to represent.

Jimmy Hoffa, Sr. may not be around to witness this shocking change in the home base of compulsory unionism.

But you can be sure of one thing.

Jimmy Hoffa is rolling his grave.

Where ever that is.

Rating: I Would Have Bought a Jimmy Hoffa Commemorative Shirt – But, Alas, Andiamo Doesn’t Sell Those

Fighting Command and Control Capitalism in Kalamazoo

Kalamazoo Beer Exchange
211 E. Water St.
Kalamazoo, MI





“There really is a Kalamazoo.”

If you need an emergency souvenir at the Kalamazoo Airport, a t-shirt emblazoned with that saying is your only option.

That should give you some insight into the self-esteem issues this frigid West Michigan city must grapple with.

But like most small college towns, Kalamazoo has nothing to be ashamed of, hitting far above its weight with a vibrant downtown full of fun bars, brew pubs and thirsty college girls.

That’s a hell of a lot more than Detroit can claim.

Hitting up a few of those beer halls was at the top of my agenda.

But I had no idea my evening of beer drinking was going to turn into an economics lesson.

First on the list was Bell’s Brewery -- probably the best known brewery in all of Michigan.

Bell’s is most famous nationally for its Oberon wheat beer and Two Hearted IPA. As always, I was more excited to try some of the other two dozen brews on tap that I can’t find at my local Total Wine.

My fellow Suit and I each ordered up a flight of a half dozen beers, handwriting our selections on a preprinted list which I submitted to the bartender -- after standing in a long, loooong line.

Clearly efficiency is not a goal at Bell’s.

Every customer in the crowded brewpub has to stand in the same line every time they want a new beer.

Shouldn’t an important economic lesson be that if you have a crowd of people who want to hand you their cash, you make it quicker and easier for them to do so?

Indecisive out-of-towners like me ordering a dozen samplers probably don’t help to speed things up.

But a flight is the only way to go.

It increases the odds that I might reach that pinnacle of beer drinking -- finding that one life-altering brew so exquisite, so unique that it will go down as one of the greatest beers to ever grace Suit757’s liver.


That search is what forces me out of bed every morning.

Well, that and the fact that I have a job that requires me to get on a plane at 6am and fly to Kalamazoo.

I mean, I have to find a way to pay for all this life-altering beer after all.

And at $36 for a dozen five ounce samplers, we clearly weren’t getting any hometown discount from Bell’s.

My selection leaned toward the darker, heavier, more potent offerings, including an unassuming 9.5% alcohol barleywine named “Bull in a China Shop”, a toasty and hoppy “Experimental” black IPA and powerful black imperial “Expedition Stout”.

The “Third Coast Beer” was a crisp ale that served as a nice reprieve from the powerful dark brews.

Of course I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to try Bell’s ultimate imperial IPA on draft -- Hopslam -- which lived up to its name.

But the whole point of this exercise is to learn something new. Discover a previously unknown brew that will help fulfill the meaning of my beer drinking life.

I take this stuff seriously.

So I can’t just sample some beers and enjoy the evening.

No. This is science. This is journalism. This is research.

All rolled into one sudsy experiment.

I had to declare a winner.

That honor went to Bell’s “Smoked Stout”, a malty manly beer with just the right amount of smokiness.

Wow. This would go great with some of Bell’s meat smoked on premises.

How about the brisket sandwich?

In all this excitement and science and stuff, I hadn’t paid much attention to the food menu.

Or the time.

So my fellow suit went to stand at the end of the long line with clear instructions -- food and a full pint of smoked porter.

Fifteen minutes later he finally reappeared with a couple beers -- and some bad news.

The
kitchen was closed.

WHAT???

What packed brewery in a college town shuts down the smoker at 9pm? Haven’t these people ever heard of beer munchies?

First rule of economics -- if you have a crowd of hungry beer drinkers on premises, sell them food!

Now I was irritated. And hungry.

My mood didn’t improve when I learned that before I could wander the streets of downtown Kalamazoo in search of sustenance, I had to go back and stand in that damn line again just to pay my $50 beer tab.

Now what?

After a series of texts to three different Suits who all spent their college years drinking beer in Kalamazoo, there was a consensus -- Kalamazoo Beer Exchange. Serving food until 11pm.

That works for me.

Housed in a cool looking old downtown warehouse, Kalamazoo Beer Exchange sported a nice selection of local and national craft beers.

Most interesting of all, the prices for the draft beers fluctuate every fifteen minutes based on supply and demand.

Suit757’s inner economist (Austrian school, of course) suddenly got very excited about this concept.

When the demand for a particular beer increases, the price goes up. When nobody is ordering it, the price goes down.

All of this is tracked on a big stock exchange electronic score board above the bar that I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off of.

Did I tell you I was an econ major in college?

Yeah. Pretty exciting stuff.

Even cooler still, our waitress informed us that occasionally there will be a “Market Crash” when all the beer prices tumble to bargain levels. Despite my eager anticipation, that never happened the entire two hours we were there.

Supply and demand is the most foundational of all economic principles. Virtually all of economics branches off from this basic concept.

Being the shrewd economist I am, I quickly strategized that rather than ordering a local brew like Bell’s, perhaps I could maximize the return on my investment by going for a more obscure beer that might be in less demand.

Sure enough, Green Flash Double Stout out of San Diego seemed to be priced well at just $5.25 per pint. A strong 8.8% sweet malty brew like this was a virtual steal for five bucks.

Sure enough, after I ordered it, the price jumped up to $5.50.

Then fifteen minutes later it dropped back down to $5.25.

And stayed there the rest of the night.

Huh? Shouldn’t there be a bit more volatility in this beer market?

My Milton Friedman deep inside me grew suspicious that maybe this “free market” might not be so free after all.

After ordering a Penny Dreadful, a dark 6.8% beer from Brewery Terra Firma out of Traverse City, I soon realized that all the beers were trading in a very narrow range of about 25 to 50 cents.

This is no free market after all!

It’s like Chinese command and control capitalism. What the ChiComs call a “Socialist Market Economy.”

It has the façade of a free market but the prices are actually set by the central government and never trade outside a narrow band.

Just like the interest rates set by the Federal Reserve.

Or the Yuan that the Chinese hope will replace the U.S. dollar as the world’s reserve currency after the Fed finishes its mission to destroy the buck.

I was soooo disappointed.

Kalamazoo Beer Exchange is a neat concept, but like our supposedly American capitalist system, it would only work properly if the central authorities let it operate freely.

Otherwise the fluctuating prices of the beer are just an irritation.

Unfortunately, the food did nothing to cheer me up.

The steak nachos with their crispy baked tortilla chips and pile of sautéed onions and peppers, tomatoes, sour cream and guacamole weren’t too bad -- except for one very serious problem.

There was virtually no steak on my steak nachos.

Dude. First rule of Econ 101: Do not cheat Suit757 out of his meat if you expect a good review!

The “Blue Plate Special” was a sausage and peppers pizza for ten bucks.

It sounded like a good deal, but ended up just as further real life evidence of yet another important economic principle: You get what you pay for.

Forget eating this pizza with my hands -- the way God intended pizza to be consumed.

In fact, it was so soggy, a knife and fork wasn’t enough.

A straw would have been a more appropriate utensil to eat this damn thing.

The more of it I attempted to slurp down, the more irritated I got.

And the marginal pleasure I derived from each additional beer I consumed seemed to lessen with every sip.

Could this be the “Law of Diminishing Returns” setting in?

Considering how much high potency beer I had consumed and the approaching midnight hour, I don’t think there was any question.

It was time to go back to the Best Western.

I was learning yet another important economic lesson.

Kalamazoo Beer Exchange and Bell’s Brewery could learn some lessons too.

You can’t fight the basic laws of economics. Sometimes you just have to obey them.

Rating: Wouldn’t Wear Shirt if They Paid Me.

I'll Buy that for a Dollar

Plymouth Fall Fest

Downtown Plymouth, Michigan

"Old Detroit has a cancer . . . the cancer is crime," lectured the CEO of Omni Consumer Products in the1987 sci-fi flick, Robocop.

Unfortunately, despite the best efforts of Robocop, not much has changed in the 24 years since the movie was made.

In fact, it may actually be worse than the distopian film made it out to be. Detroit remains the festering economic wound that threatens to rot off Michigan's famous thumb.

The cancer is obvious to anyone who drives into Detroit. Michigan's gorgeous countryside of green fields and grazing animals gives way to condemned buildings and the panhandling homeless.

You're soon greeted by police cars painted a welcoming shade of black.

Sadly, the sight makes me understand Robocop's villain Clarence Boddicker's quip, "You see, I got this problem. Cops don't like me, so I don't like cops."

So imagine my thought when I was recently invited by a friend to visit Plymouth, Michigan's "Fall Fest" -- the yearly festival that takes place in the town's downtown streets.

I quietly whispered in my head as I was accepting her invitation, "Great, decent food and an otherwise good time overshadowed by paramilitary style police along with throngs of teenage wannabe gangsters who eagerly have their eyes on my valuables while they loudly blurt out Eminem lyrics."

I thought this because I was going on the assumption that Plymouth is like the rest of the "3-1-3;" poetically dismal.

After all, a mediocre Government Motors (GM) car line is named after the place and how can that be a good thing?

Much to my amazement, Plymouth was far closer the the Utopian "Delta City" of Robocop lore than the unchecked playground of corrupt text messaging mayors.

The town was just damn pleasant!

Well-kept, nice streets, historic victorian homes built around old railroad tracks who a century earlier brought the wealth of the East Coast to town.

And in the middle, a park-like square compete with a fountain surrounded by restaurants, cafes, and an oh so trending cupcake store.

This was Detroit's donut effect in full glory. The empty center ringed by a thriving outside area.

However, I wasn't there for the fashionable bistros or even the Ferris Wheel. No, I came for one thing -- down-home Midwestern festival food!

You know the kind. Made lovingly by old church ladies, local philanthropic groups, and the ever present Mom begrudgingly filling her required volunteer service hours.

This is the soul that festivals on the east coast just plain lack.

Almost upon entering the blocked streets my companion spotted a discarded pierogi on the curb.

Clearly whoever was eating this must have dropped the tasty boiled then panfried dumpling, because who in their right mind would throw it away?

My escort and I decided then and there we were on a mission. Our prime directive was to find homemade Polish food.

The tent in question was (wo)manned by the mom's of the local "Polish Centennial Dancers." A dance group made-up predominately of teenagers.

We eagerly ran up to the table to order our pierogis and were up-sold on the stuffed cabbage. A blend of seasoned beef with rice, covered in a tomato sauce then wrapped in a tenderly boiled cabbage leaf.

You see, I have a soft spot in my heart for boiled food; call it the peasant in me.

Even my friend ordered one prompting me to ask, "Aren't you a vegetarian," and she sheepishly replied, "Yes, but . . . um . . . sometimes I eat meat."

And who wouldn't in this case?

We sat in the town square eating our Polish fare with plastic forks and bowls enjoying the first rain free day in a week.

The blues played on the stage behind us and the neighborhood congregated around the fountain. No cyborg super-cop patrolling the streets and only a few disheveled Insane Clown Posse fans lingering about.

Was it the best tasting meal I ever had -- not by a long shot. It wasn't even the best pierogi or stuffed cabbage I ever had due to their lack of spice.

But sometimes taste isn't the only thing that makes for a good meal.

Many times, it's the the overall surroundings, the company that's joining you and the new memories you're making or old ones you're recalling -- and as the creepy commercials in Robocop said, "I'll buy that for a dollar!"

Rating: I would buy the shirt . . . for a dollar!

Chili Dog Autopsy Pizza???

Bella Pizza
6709 Park Ave.
Allen Park, MI


I hate Detroit.

There is absolutely NOTHING redeeming about this rust-belt, union-dominated, burned-out hell-hole of a city.

That is, except, chili dogs.

Or “Coney Islands”, as they call them here.

Look, as Suit757, I’ve been to every city in America. I can rank them from one to one hundred.

Detroit is DEAD last. Numero infinity. The very last place on earth I want to be stranded over a holiday weekend.

Amid the smoldering ruins, charred cinder blocks and hoards of Obama legions collecting their 99 weeks of pay in exchange for NOT working (and their vote in 2012), the only thing to look forward to in this Third World outpost is a world famous chili dog at Lafayette Coney Island or it’s next door rival, American Coney Island.

Here’s the problem.

Tonight is Major League Baseball All-Star Game Night.

One of the few Suit757 must-see sporting events of the year. Right up there with the Super Bowl, Daytona 500, March Madness and the Hooters Dream Girls Swimsuit Quarterfinals.

Nope. Sorry, my loyal Suits in Strange Places readers, I’m not going out tonight.

I’m swinging by the local liquor store for a six-pack and sitting my butt in front of the snowy Best Western TV in room 164. And calling for pizza delivery.

The helpful front desk clerk even gave me a menu from Bella Pizza, the local pizza joint down the street, which I perused as the All-Stars were introduced.

It didn’t take me long to figure out what Suit757 was ordering tonight.

Coney Island Pizza.

Wow!

I think I’ve died and gone to junk food heaven.

A classic Detroit Coney Island chili dog – served as a pizza!

Could it be?

Do miracles happen? In Detroit??

I was about to find out.

Even if my Coney Island Pizza was a disaster, I had a six pack of Celis Grand Cru by local microbrewery Michigan Brewing Company to keep me satisfied through nine innings of double-switches and pitching changes. (Who the hell decided that 84 major leagers deserved to be “All-Stars” any way?)

The brew is a high alcohol Belgian-style beer with a typical sweet, fruity taste that is more conducive to sipping than chugging.

You know the whole “beer to have when you are having more than one?”

Yeah. This ain’t it.

Good thing Bella delivered that pizza just in time for the Seventh Inning Stretch.

Did the Bella Coney Island Pizza meet my heightened expectations?

Blown. Away.

Like Bella did an autopsy on a traditional Detroit Coney Chili Dog and smothered its remains all over a chewy pizza crust.

Picture this. Sliced up hot dogs and caramelized onions buried under a blanket of cheddar cheese served up over a thick bed of meaty Coney Island chili sauce.

It tasted like one of the best Coney Island chili dogs you’ll ever have – but served up on a toasty slice of pizza.

If Bella Pizza ever goes public, I want in on the I.P.O.

In fact, my Coney Island Pizza was so good, I might even reconsider my opinion of Detroit as the most godforsaken place in America.

“Mo Town” may be the ultimate home to taxpayers bailouts, “hip hop mayors” serving jail time and “job banks” of UAW members being paid six figures NOT to work, but they sure know how to get creative with the toppings on twelve inches of pizza dough.

Chopped up hot dogs and chili on pizza, Belgian-Michigan beer and the American past-time – from the inside of room 164 at the Best Western, Detroit’s not looking so bad after all!

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.