Kerux: a portfolio of Calvin Theological Seminary - Volume 44.2 - 16 Nov 2009

Graydon’s Crossing at Derby Station: A Review

by Jonathan Moore

After wrapping up several hours arduous research on the Parable of the Lost Sheep, I leave Heckman Library and head for one of my favorite places on God’s green earth, or at least in Grand Rapids. I weave north through campus and take Lake Drive, following it’s winding northwestern path until I end up at Reed’s Lake. I turn north on Lakeshore Drive and watch kids scattering leaves in the park, men playing soccer, and a young couple pushing their sailboat off the dock. A left on Wealthy brings me into Gaslight Village, a quaint little street lined with stores and cafés with an old “downtown” feel (and with free parking). Finally, a few blocks down at a corner on the right, there it is… Graydon’s Crossing at Derby Station.

I walk in and grab a seat in one of the dark, polished wood booths on my right, pull out my laptop, and begin to expound upon the cultural relevance of Jesus dining with sinners in Luke’s account of parable. Ah, who am I kidding, I connect to their wifi and check out my friends’ statuses on Facebook.

A waitress comes by after a few minutes with some water and takes my order. Behind me a “thwack, thwack, thwack” followed by the scratch of chalk on the scoreboard lets me know two patrons have begun a game of darts. A cheer from the bar to my right lets me know Michigan just scored.

My meal comes in less time than it took me to order, a mug of New Holland’s Ichabod Pumpkin Ale and a piping hot plate of Shepherd’s Pie. The aptly named meal reminds me that I should return to my paper and this place is perfect for just that. The lights are dim but the booth’s reading lamp illuminates my notes as I plug in my computer’s power cord and end the ceaseless beckoning of its “low battery” light. I sit and write to the soft background music, the “thwack, thwack, thwack” of darts, and the occasional clink of plates from the kitchen. The amazing smell of three entrees wafting past reminds me that I should finish my meal before it gets too cold.

I have a difficult time explaining this place to friends. It’s not just a restaurant, or an Irish pub, or a coffeehouse, or a sports bar. It’s all these and yet none of them. It’s a place I can come by myself and write, a place where I can meet with friends to talk about school projects or to watch a game, a place where I can bring my wife for a romantic date. It’s a community. One where they let you keep your mug behind the bar, one where they tap a fresh cask (not keg) of seasonal ale every Wednesday, one where they plan a five course feast in the large dining hall in the back to celebrate the holidays. It’s just Graydon’s Crossing.

What I love most is the authenticity. Irish flags and brewery banners hang on the ceiling, with old maps of Ireland and swords ordaining the walls. They’re probably fake, but there’s no claim that they are otherwise. They are not gaudy or gimmicky, or lined in green with shamrock borders. The staff talk and debate and laugh but they don’t assault me with random Irish facts or worse, sing me happy birthday in their best Lucky Charms voice. I sit there for hours nursing a beer or coffee or Coke, writing, reading and studying. The staff talks and laughs and swings by now and then to make sure I’m still alive. It’s clear they enjoy their work, each other, and having me here.

As with all good things, the time comes for it to end. I pack up the stacks of readings that I’ve printed off of ANGEL (how can we only be halfway through first semester and my printing quota is already almost up?) and I pay my bill (less than I’d pay for a bagel and coffee at Starbucks). The gaslights outside have turned on and the cool night air carries the music of bagpipes from a nearby street performer. If only I didn’t have to sift through 95 pages of the Rule of Saint Benedict when I got home, this would be a perfect night.