My name is David Slutes. I’ve been a part of Hotel Congress for, oh, 24 years or so. I’ve taken on various roles—Cyber Café manager (remember cyber cafes?), Hotel Manager, self-appointed sommelier, and for the last 16 years, Entertainment Director. But even prior to my employment, I spent a great deal of my life here at Hotel Congress. As a musician, this was my favorite place to play; as a bachelor, this was my favorite place to play. Now, in April 2020, I am married with two children, and packing groceries at the Hotel Congress Market.
And I couldn’t be more grateful.
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Courtesy Photo
David Slutes: "I miss it all."
Hotel Congress is a special, weird, controversial, sprawling beast. The creative energy of the people who work here, the professionalism/anarchy of the management, the fearless politics and “go for it” attitude of ownership, and the “every guest, every time” mantra we corp-speak is actually embraced.
But now, most of this has been silenced. The concert venues, sit-down dining, dance club, weddings, parties, and hotel guests have all necessarily disappeared.
I miss it all. I miss our festivals and giant events of course—that’s my thing—but mostly I miss the days to hum. I miss the clink of wine glasses, I miss Salvador Duran crooning on Thursdays, I miss the wide grins of old friends meeting at the Tap Room to reminisce or pregame. I miss the knowing Michigan snowbirds showing their friends historical building details while adding new apocryphal details to the Dillinger legend. I miss the aging musician regaling his girlfriend about the amazing show he played here back in the ’90s opening for the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I miss the late night thump of the disco and the sleepless guest calling down to tell us to please turn it down. I miss the FBI-escort surrounding the political power lunch while seated next to the punk rock band, both tables tucking into the baked eggs. I miss the late night love birds sneaking into the dark corners where they think the security staff can’t see them. I miss the quartet of mezcal fueled dancers swaying to cumbia under the stars. I miss the giant pancakes awaiting to be eaten by the kids who are running laps around the plaza while a honeybee, eying his opportunity, swoops in. I miss best-bartender-ever Barb, yelling at one guest then hugging his best friend. I miss the clamor of the food truck as it churns out tasty 2am food to the post-drinking, pre-Uber club bum bar folk. I miss the boomers demanding more chairs for the early evening concerts then barely giving way as the horde of dancing millennials take over late night. I miss the gentle touch of our door staff escorting out that guy who is acting like a jerk. I miss the woman who insists on renting a “ghost room” then gets too scared to stay in it all night. I miss the ghost that scared her. I miss that awful band that drove everyone out of the Club. I miss that sold out show that everyone waited in a line for an hour on Congress Street to see. I miss the finely dressed wedding party guests getting down on the dance floor with the grimiest downtown hipsters. I miss the death-warmed-over, hungover couple who stumble down the stairs after their late-checkout, staring straight into the front desk attendant’s eyes and boozily stating “That was the best goddam night EVER” and then pleading for Tylenol and a Bloody Mary.