Metro Times Photo / Jennifer Jeffery
Steven Francis of Steve's Place.
Christened after its elderly owner Steven Francis, Steve’s Place has the appearance of a 1940s Robert Mitchum film projected onto an old screen. It could be the last bar on the last block on the last day at last call. The long-in-the-tooth bar is a Bukowskian reverie, an overlooked jewel in downtown Detroit. The den is staid and sedate, as are its regulars — the day drinkers, the lifers and the occasional late-night hipsters. The spacious bar could be anywhere in East Hollywood, anywhere old Buk called home, but is, lucky for Detroiters, located between the Renaissance Center and Greektown. Steve’s Place remains unaffected by tourism, steroid-TV sports, and — aside from the glorious 1970s lunch pail collection behind the bar — the trappings of traditional pop culture. Steve’s is a place to sit and get tanked quietly, regardless of the occasional barstool storyteller, oddball, unruly lawyer or punk rocker that might amble in
