Lou looked at her painting and smiled.
• • • • •
Seven thirty on a Friday night and the dining room had too many open tables. Lou scanned the sparsley populated room for the glowing white hair and gleaming forehead of her favorite customers. Gertrude and Otto still ate at Luella’s at least twice a week, a thought that warmed Lou. She worried about them. Gertrude was moving a little slower than a few months ago. She insisted it was nothing, but Lou had noticed her rouge seemed artificial, as if she was coloring in her face rather than highlighting her features.
But tonight, Gertrude was as cheerful as always. On a selfish level, Lou was happy for a slow night so she could have a long visit with them. Otto, while silent, had a confident presence, implying he had a handle on any situation; nothing took him by surprise. Gertrude merely exuded pure sunshine. As usual, Lou felt better in their presence; they were like guardian angels watching out for her.
“Gute Nacht, Otto, Gertrude. I’m so happy to see you.” Lou slipped into an empty chair next to the pair. “Seen any of the nieces and nephews lately?”
“Bah, they are too busy with their lives to worry about their old, wrinkled relatives. They have heard all our stories and are looking to make their own.”
“Well, that means I get to see more of you. Just the way I like it.”
Gertrude looked around at the many empty tables. “How are things, Liebling?”
“Wonderful.”
“The restaurant is wonderful?”
“Yes . . . well, no, not really. But other things are pretty good.”
Gertrude’s eyes sparkled with the delight of understanding Lou’s words more than Lou herself. “It is this new man, yes?”
“It is. We’re just friends, for now. But he’s lovely. We both love food, and laughing, and trying new things. It isn’t about the next deal, or how many people see him. If anything, he doesn’t care about meeting new people. He seems to enjoy my company.”
“That is good. Otto and I love spending time with each other. Even when we shop for new tires, it is fun because we do it together.” Otto’s shiny head bobbed in agreement, flashes of light emphasizing the importance.
“How did you know . . . that Otto was the one?”
Gertrude’s eyes glazed, peering through the years at a younger self.
“Ah, Herzchen, that is a very good question. I knew love before Otto. My first husband was very handsome, well respected. He sold insurance to everyone. We cared deeply for each other. When he died, I mourned, but I was not bereft. Then I met Otto. Everything made sense. As long as we were together, we could overcome anything. The meanest tasks became pleasurable because we would find the humor together. When one got angry, the other would defuse; when one got lost, the other found the map. We balanced. When we dance, all is at peace. No worries, no insurmountable obstacles. We can handle anything together. You know those dancers from the old movies, the two that danced so beautifully together?”
Lou scrunched her eyebrows in thought. “You mean Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers?”
“Yes, Fred and Ginger. Otto and I are like Fred and Ginger. Alone, we were good. But together—perfection.”
Otto reached a pale, wrinkled hand over Gertrude’s matching one and gave a little squeeze of agreement. She shone a little brighter. For once, Lou got it. With Devlin, he never made her shine brighter. He tried to hide her flaws behind fancy clothes, was embarrassed she worked in a kitchen. But when she spent time with Al, she was a more confident, comfortable version of herself. She was Lou, lover of food, friends, and home. A home where she could obsess about her favorite books, giggle at ridiculous movies, and create amazing food from her heart. And with Al, she was all of those things, and he seemed to like her more because of them. She showed him all that meant the most to her, Milwaukee’s heart and soul, and he still wanted to spend more time with her. Plus, she could tell his opinion of Milwaukee had softened.
“I think I may have found my Fred Astaire,” Lou said half to herself.
“Oh, that is wonderful. When can we meet him?”
Lou’s eyes sparkled at the idea of having Al in the restaurant. She had not thought of it before, but she relished the idea of seeing him at one of her tables, enjoying her food. “Soon. We aren’t really together yet. I’ve just been showing him Milwaukee. He may just want to stay friends.” Lou’s heart sunk a little with that thought.
“Liebchen, there is no better place to start than friendship.”
• • • • •
Al balanced a flimsy tray of fried zucchini with garlic aioli, a heavy paper plate of warm gnocchi in a tomato cream sauce, an eggplant spiedini, and a plastic glass of Italian red while following John through the undulating crowds around the Miller Stage. He had seen some cannoli and Italian cookies he’d go back for later. He didn’t want to risk sacrificing his lunch to the beer-soaked and heavily trodden ground. From behind, John looked even more slovenly than usual. He wore his normal wrinkled blue button-down and stained trousers, but today he’d added ratty black Converse high-tops, his hair so mussed it looked intentional. An open picnic table appeared before him. John looked at him for an opinion on the table options; Al nodded his approval of the seating. He’d been losing his grip on the gnocchi, so he wasn’t picky. The smells rising from the plates nearly drove him crazy with anticipation.
Al spread his meal around him, setting the zucchini in between them for sharing. The two ate silently for a few minutes. They had come down to Festa Italiana for lunch under the guise of Al writing a story on the food. Well, that part was true, but he could have come after work or on the weekend. It was too nice a day to stay in the office, so he coerced John into joining him for a little hooky. Al had been to his fair share of festivals, but this town really knew how to throw a party. Most fest food dripped with grease and tasted too salty. While such foods were available, quality alternatives abounded. At Festa, he couldn’t decide what to eat; there were so many appealing options. Local restaurants (most of them Italian) set up food booths, serving popular restaurant items and a few unusual ones. The stalls represented a who’s who of Milwaukee Italians. The food wasn’t just good compared to other festivals—it would stand up to full restaurant menus.
He’d walk home to offset all the carbs. His pants already felt tighter than usual; he’d have to exercise a bit more to keep the weight from ticking up. Lately, food just tasted too good to stop after his first few bites. Perhaps because he dined with more enthusiasm, enthusiasm he could trace directly to Lou. Ever since their chance encounter, Milwaukee was better. Maybe the reluctant arrival of summer cheered him, or maybe it was his blossoming friendship with John. But he knew without a doubt it was mainly Lou. She’d showed him the unique, humble, and delicious side of the town he had refused to acknowledge existed.
He felt happier now, too. He enjoyed the blue-collar work-hard, play-hard attitude of the locals. Last Friday, he had finally gone out for his first Wisconsin fish fry. When he walked in the small corner bar, he thought he’d made a mistake. Ten patrons turned around and stared at the new guy, but the wall of people surrounding the hostess stand made his decision for him: he would eat at the bar. Al took the seat next to a man wearing a gray Packers T-shirt, jeans, and a cap for a local construction company, his gray hair peeking out under the edge.
When he ordered a gin and tonic from the wizened old woman with pale beehive hair, the man chimed in, “You don’t want that. Darlene makes a crap gin and tonic. Get a brandy old-fashioned. She makes the best.”
“Hard to argue with that recommendation. A brandy old-fashioned, please.”
Darlene the bartender made the drink and set it in front of Al. After one sip, Al knew he had found a new favorite drink.