“Are you afraid to discuss your ardent cider evangelism?” Lou laughed, sending a jolt through his heart. He nodded. “And deal.”
This arrangement kept getting better.
While Lou ordered half the menu, Al read it. Burgers, fries, some sandwiches, a lot of unique toppings, and a lot of cheese. He had researched the restaurant this morning and knew it was owned by the Bartolotta group, which owned several of the best restaurants in Milwaukee. He had yet to eat at one of their establishments; there didn’t seem much point in reviewing the juggernaut. Northpoint Custard had a unique relationship with the city; they rented this prime location from the city as a means of bringing life to the lakefront. And it looked as if it worked brilliantly. For a Monday afternoon in June, the line was long and the lakefront bustled.
Lou returned with a huge tray of food and an explanation to match. “I ordered us one burger to split, but I had them put the toppings on the side. I recommend the cheese spread with fried onions and bacon. I also ordered a lake perch sandwich, onion rings, fries, a strawberry shake, and cheese curds. The curds are the best in Milwaukee, maybe the state, but I’d have to put more time into definitive research. Lastly, here’s their homemade cheese sauce. Use it while it’s warm ’cause it congeals as it cools—that’s how you know it’s real.”
Al reviewed the golden bounty set before him. The food smelled like home, reminding him of the fish-and-chips shop his family frequented in Windsor; the scent of hot oil, salt, and crispy breading—bliss. He started with the much-hailed cheese curds, hot and oozing a little of the white cheddar; the outside was crispy and salty when he bit. A string of cheese dangled from his mouth to his hand as he pulled the cheese from his lips. He expected something more like a mozzarella stick, but not this. It wasn’t just about the gooey and the crispy; he could taste the cheddar and it was good. No, not just good, transcendent.
“Why are they called cheese curds?” asked Al, struggling to stuff the string of cheese into his mouth; it was caught on some whiskers.
“They’re the fresh cheese curds from making cheese—you know, curds and whey. They’re the curds part. They usually take the curds, press them together to form the block of cheese, but in Wisconsin, we sell them, too. We’ll stop for some on the way to the next portion of today’s lesson. Then you can experience cheese curds in all their delectable forms.”
Al couldn’t help smiling, dangling cheese and all. He forced himself to stop shoving cheese curds in his mouth and moved on to the burger. He slathered what Lou had identified as the cheese spread all over his half of the burger, sprinkled it liberally with fried onions, and added a slice of bacon. He wasn’t much for burgers, but this one seemed promising. The juices flowed onto the soft, lightly toasted bun; the cheese immediately melted down the sides. This was not a tidy meal. He took a bite. It was almost as good as the cheese curds. The bun was just the right combination of tender and toasted, and the onions and bacon melded with the melting cheese, which dripped down and mingled with the burger’s juices, then continued down to his hand. Next up, the chips, which he dipped deeply into the homemade cheese sauce. Lou was right again— definitely homemade and so much better than the canned glop most restaurants served. This was easily the best food he had eaten since arriving in Milwaukee, so he closed his eyes to savor it.
• • • • •
Lou watched Al carefully. She knew a foodgasm when she saw one. He chewed slowly and carefully, eyes closed, senses open. Lou noticed how long and dark his lashes were. They created little smiles sitting on top of his cheeks, matching the one on his mouth. He had the faintest hint of scruff on his jawline, catching the cheese. Lou loved the slightly scruffy look and wondered whether Al ever let it grow beyond today’s five-o’clock shadow. She nibbled her food, not wanting to disrupt his experience with idle chatter—and she liked watching people enjoy food.
Devlin never enjoyed food like this. He ate to fuel, not to satisfy the senses. Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? She’d found a new KitchenAid mixer sitting on her kitchen counter a couple of days before, the eight-hundred-dollar copper model she’d lusted after for years. Attached was a message on one of his stupid note cards reading, “You need to hear me out.—D.” He had used his spare key to enter her apartment as if he belonged there, and now she had to have the locks rekeyed, another expense she couldn’t afford.
She was so angry at his hubris, she’d toppled the mixer into the Dumpster, then immediately crawled back in after it. If she wasn’t going to keep it, she would make sure it went to a good home. She scrubbed it with bleach and left it for her neighbors across the hall, a young couple who just had a baby. She would show them how to make baby food with it.
Lou loved watching Al savor every bite. She mentally vowed to make him an amazing meal just to see him enjoy it. Maybe her Cuban pork with black beans and cilantro rice. That was a great summer feast—complete with mojitos and mojo sauce. If he savored a burger with such fervor, she knew he’d swoon over her cooking.
Al swallowed his last bite and finished off the strawberry shake.
“Truly and unexpectedly fantastic,” he said.
“Are you converted?”
“To what?”
“To the wonders of Milwaukee.”
“Deep-fried cheese and tasty burgers do not make a city, but I will definitely eat here again. So what’s next?” Al looked around as if their next stop would appear magically out of the parking lot like a mirage.
Lou stood up, tossed the garbage into a cow trash can, and said, “Next is beer.” She started walking, expecting Al to follow. He did. Lou heard his footsteps and smiled. They walked to Lou’s battered black Honda Civic. One back window didn’t roll down anymore, the air system’s fan worked only intermittently, and the muffler had surrendered itself to a Wisconsin blizzard years ago. But it worked with minimal upkeep and started every morning, even during the deepest January freezes. Al raised one eyebrow at the large dent on the passenger side.
“I’m supposed to feel safe?”
Lou laughed. “Fear not—it happened in a parking lot. I wasn’t even around.”
Al got in, made a show of buckling himself securely, and Lou took off in search of beer and the promised fresh cheese curds.
• • • • •
When he returned to work after his adventure with Lou, Al’s hair stood in all different directions from the windy afternoon, and he carried a small plastic bag with a white label indicating weight and price per pound. “Do you eat cheese curds?” Al asked as he paused behind John’s desk chair. He held out the opened bag to John, who snatched a handful. Squeak!
“Mmmm, they’re fresh. I love ’em fresh.” A cheese crumb fell into his beard. He didn’t remove it.
“So you know about the squeak? It’s mad.”
“Yeah, I know about the squeak—only fresh curds squeak.”
“They’re so good,” Al said through the large curd he had just tossed in his mouth.
“What’s going on, and why are you so excited by squeaky cheese?”
“Because I never knew this existed.”
“Oh, wait—didn’t you ask about Northpoint Custard? You aren’t reviewing it, are you?” John squinted his eyes with suspicion.
“Yes and no.”
“Why go, then?”
“I met someone there for lunch.”
“You met someone? A girl someone? Where did you meet her? Does she have a friend?”
“I am not introducing you to any sane woman or her friend. You’d scare the hell out of them with that beard. When are you going to shave that thing?”
“I’m not. It’s who I am.”
“Ladies don’t like men with food in their beards.”
“Some do.”
“Are there websites for it?”
John laughed, grabbed a few more curds before Al moved out of reach, and returned to his work. Still a little buzzed from the Sprecher Brewery tour, Al set the curds to the left of his keyboard so they wouldn’t get in the way of the mouse and sat down slowly.