The Michigan Daily

Paul David eats a gyro at Ann Arbor's landmark restaurant, Fleetwood. (PETER SCHOTTENFELS/Daily)

Fleetwood Diner's signature black and white decor contributes to its appeal with Ann Arborites. (PETER SCHOTTENFELS/Daily)

Downtown Ann Arbor presents dozens of fabulous places to shop, visit and dine at. If, however, you walk down East Liberty Street to South Ashley Street, you’ll find something out of the ordinary.

You’ll see it perched on a sloping corner, the tiny Fleetwood Diner, a humble, unassuming building with stainless-steel siding and a striped awning. It’s been here in Ann Arbor for years, a landmark of greasy-spoon splendor often passed by in favor of the more trendy, cosmopolitan restaurants. As you walk up the gray sidewalk, you’ll see green plastic chairs and tables pushed up against the front of the diner, crowded in with laughing customers. More often than not there is a slumbering dog tied to the telephone pole a few feet in front of the door. When you enter the small space you’re immediately reminded of a '50s diner; you almost expect to see girls in poodle skirts and ponytails sipping milkshakes.

The floor is a scuffed black-and-white tile to match the chairs and tables. Loud stickers from Found Magazine and local bands cover the dim front wall. A low counter runs along one half of the diner where people sit, reading newspapers, boots resting on the raised floor while they wait for their food. Take a seat on a stool; the server will offer you a menu. Look around and soak in every image. Next to you the man in the dark brown shirt pushes his eggs around his plate. Curlicues of cigarette smoke fade into the fluorescent lights. The smell of grease and the constant hiss of the griddle stay low in the background as you observe the different characters at each table. The old man in the corner talks to his companion, waving his hands and drawing faces under his old green Army cap while he smokes his cigarette down to the filter, crushing it in the ashtray before taking a sip of his coffee. A man looks out the window, his hair tinted a deep red, wearing sunglasses, a leather coat and a wistful stare. The cook stays in constant motion, his spatula screeching across the griddle to flip another patty. It’s as if time has slowed down.

The young man behind the counter seems too busy to talk, even though it is only late afternoon. Fleetwood is open 24 hours; imagine how crowded it must be late at night, bustling with concertgoers and midnight wanderers looking for a hot cup of coffee. Take a look at the menu, which proclaims proudly “Welcome to the Fleetwood. The hippest little diner in the hippest little town in the Midwest. OK, so Ann Arbor’s not so little.” You’ll see that Fleetwood’s menu is nothing but diner food, pure and simple, priced very reasonably. There’s a specialty, too -— the Hippie Hash, a stack of homemade hash browns, grilled green peppers, onions, tomato, broccoli, and mushrooms, topped with melted feta cheese. “I think the Hippie Hash is great,” says fellow customer Claire Vanpoperin about the food. “I come here a couple times a month.”

Sit and watch for a while. Taste the food, sip your drink. Take your time. When you leave you’ll be back in the real world, serenaded by cell phones and traffic. But you’ll feel difference somehow, with a sense of that you’ve stumbled upon a relic. Not a particularly valuable one, perhaps, but something with its own gritty charm.

The Fleetwood is anything but serene. It is brash and unashamed, worn at the edges and a little faded. It still sticks out, though, bringing some of Ann Arbor’s most unusual clientele. Jason Jochems, sitting at a table with his hands cradling a cup of coffee, might put it best. People “just happen to randomly end up here. It’s just one of those places that makes Ann Arbor feel like a real college town.”

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