“Good. Before I order, one rule: no work talk. Deal?”
“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 buzze
d 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.
He had expected they’d take the Miller Brewery tour, with its inoffensive but unremarkable lagers. Sprecher Brewery was something else entirely. Completely local and amazing variety. Even the sodas surpassed expectations. The root beer was some of the best he’d ever tasted, but the cream soda was perfection.
Sitting at his desk, alone with his squeaky cheese, Al admitted to himself that for the first time since arriving in Milwaukee, he’d had fun. Lou’s uninhibited enthusiasm for the local establishments was infectious and soothing at the same time. He hadn’t realized how tightly wound he had become. Spending time with Lou felt like putting a soothing agent on a fresh wound—the relief was instant. He couldn’t wait to see what they would do next.
• CHAPTER EIGHT •
Al walked across the white, narrow bridge and stepped into the perfect eighties-movie-version of heaven, the Quadracci Pavilion of the Milwaukee Art Museum, often called the Calatrava after the architect who designed it. White surrounded him, reflecting bright, clean sunlight off every surface. The marble floor resembled the purest vanilla ice cream sparingly swirled with the darkest, richest fudge. The walls were a matching pristine white, broken only by the asymmetrical arches leading to long, gleaming hallways and into the museum proper. Above him rose a two-story cathedral ceiling of glass¸ crosshatched by large white exterior beams that were currently spread like the wings of a bird in flight. At dusk, the wings returned to rest against the main building, but during the day they soared. The comparisons to a bird were apt; he could almost feel the wingbeat poised to happen.
From the outside, the white frame looked skeletal, but not in an eerie way. More like seeing dinosaur bones at a natural history museum. Al scanned the room looking for Lou. He didn’t see her waiting. Good. He didn’t want her to have to wait for him again like she did a couple of weeks ago at Northpoint Custard. He walked toward the lakeside windows, which came to a V overlooking a sidewalk following the rocky breakwater below—like an infinity bridge. The glass slanted up and out, allowing you to lean forward over the edge, creating the uneasy feeling of falling until you hit the glass. He could see smudges lower on the pane, evidence he wasn’t the only one drawn to this view.
A huge mobile of floating red, black, and blue dots hovered over the entrance, an homage to minimalist balance. Displayed between two stories hung a remarkable blown-glass sculpture of bold colors. It reminded Al of exploding confetti and streamers—a celebration frozen forever.
Al kept looking for Lou among the scattered visitors. Nervous energy vibrated through him, amplified by the soaring architecture, leaving him slightly breathless.
• • • • •
Lou watched Al look upward at the Calatrava’s wings, reaching toward the sun already high in the sky even though it was only ten in the morning. A smile lit her face as she watched him admire the beautiful building. She’d picked the art museum as their second excursion for two reasons: One, it provided a perfect foil to the beer and cheese. This outing didn’t involve any special food, though she had packed a basket of snacks so they could eat on the lakefront. And two, even to a highbrow like Al, the museum was gorgeous. You could always find something new to admire.
“Your first time here?” asked Lou when she stood close enough. Al’s head turned quickly to her voice and a smile flashed and disappeared. Her nerves jumped with delight.
“I’m looking for the duct tape. Isn’t that how you do things in Milwaukee?”
Lou playfully glared. “We found special white duct tape so you couldn’t see it, then covered it with Italian marble.”
Both took a long breath. Lou looked around and nodded toward the nearby Chinese exhibit. “Shall we?”
Lou led as they entered into the quiet hall. A wide, winding path led visitors past multicolored silk tapestries, elaborately carved furniture, and enameled decorations that once belonged in the Forbidden City.
“Can you imagine what it must have been like for those first people to view these items after being locked away for more than eighty years? Pretty cool, right?” Lou said.
“Quite amazing.”
Lou looked over at Al to decide whether he was serious or sarcastic. He had already wandered off to study an elaborate cloisonné. She could feel the distance as he walked farther away, a bungee cord stretching and stretching until it would fling them back together. With each step, her tension heightened, urging her to close the gap and ease the discomfort, the building panic of being alone. She couldn’t tell whether it was her lingering grief from Devlin or Al’s unexplored allure, but she wouldn’t yield to it.
Lou glanced around. Painted on the wall were a variety of sayings attributed to the Qianlong emperor. One piqued her interest: “Delight is indeed born in the heart. It sometimes also depends on its surroundings.” Lou stood and stared at the words, letting them settle into her, burrow into her bones, become part of her. She would find joy again—she knew it now. She felt better here, away from everything and everyone who required something from her.
On most days, delight kept itself hidden from her, so she would go places where it frolicked—like right here, right now. Delight at the beautiful objects, delight with her sometimes stiff companion, and delight at the freedom from immediate responsibility. She would savor her delights where and when she could. Her tension melted away. With a deep, cleansing breath Lou turned to move on to the next object and bumped into Al with an “oof.”
“Sorry,” she said, the contact sending sparks down her spine.
“Quite all right; feel free to continue bumping into me. That seems to be our thing.”
“Ha! Funny English guy.”
• • • • •
Al had hoped Lou would bump into him. He stood behind her while she stared at the wall for just that reason. Intrigued by her interest, he started to ponder the quotes on the wall, too. Delight—he couldn’t remember the last time he felt delight. Maybe before Eton, when he and his parents took road trips through the English countryside, stopping in little village pubs for lunches, traipsing over hilltops to see what was on the other side, and sharing a hearty meal at the end of the day. Wait—that wasn’t quite true. During his last outing with Lou, eating a buttery, cheesy burger and tasting fried cheese curds for the first time, with the sun shining and the world humming, he had felt delight. There had been no cynicism, no pretension, just pure enjoyment. Perhaps it was more about surroundings than the emperor had envisioned.
Al put his hands on Lou’s shoulders to steady her and enjoyed the flash of warmth on his fingers and the startled look on her face. He pulled his hands away and turned to the last few items before they entered the obligatory end-of-exhibit gift shop, then went on to the regular museum. Even though he no longer touched her, his fingers retained the heat, which spread through his body. Yes, definitely more to do with the surroundings.
Al and Lou wandered into a new room, where one wall displayed simple squares of red, yellow, and blue. On another wall, a cornflower-blue plastic rectangle leaned like a giant forgotten building block. Clear and orange squares protruded from yet another wall, similar to shelves you might see in a trendy European loft.
“This room insults me,” said Al.
Lou smiled at Al’s barb.
“Not a fan of minimalism?”
“Not in the least.”
“I like its potential. You could turn it into anything. You’re only limited by your imagination.”
“Show me, don’t tell me. Art isn’t about what I can do. I know that. I want to see what the artist can do. I look at this and think the artist couldn’t be bothered to come up with anything original, so he ripped off Lego. It’s lazy.”
“So what would you create?”
Al’s eyes grew distant.
“If I were an artist, which I’m not, I’d create scenes to celebrate the simple thin
gs.”
“But you are an artist—you write, don’t you?”
Al’s stomach twisted as Lou watched him. His mind flipped through all the possible options.
“That’s freelance journalism.” He shrugged. “Not the same as museum-quality work.” He knew a lot of journalists who would smack him for saying that, rightly so.
“What do you write about?”
Al gulped and slipped a sly look onto his face.
“Are we talking work now? Because I have a few questions, too. Like when will you admit you sculpt miniatures out of cheese curds?”
“At the same time you reveal ‘freelance journalist’ is code for British dog walker to Milwaukee’s elite.”
Lou gave him a playful hip bump as she strode past him. He followed her over the parquet wood floors to the next room, where she paused to look at a painting of two vases of calla lilies. The colors and bold strokes reminded him of a Van Gogh or Matisse, but when he leaned forward he saw an unfamiliar name.
“This is the kind of painting I’d want. Bright, cheerful. It just makes me happy. It’s not making any bold statement.”
Al agreed and opened his mouth to say so when a dog started barking from Lou’s cleavage. She turned pink and reached into her shirt.
“Sorry—work.” Lou answered her phone. “What’s up?”
Lou wandered slowly into the next room as she listened on her phone. Al tried to give her a bit of extra space but could still hear the conversation. He knew eavesdropping was rude, but he wanted to know how she spent her time away from him.
“Did you call Joe?”
Pause.
“Tell him if he can get in today, I’ll pay an extra ten percent, fifteen if he can finish by two.”
Pause.
“I know. Get the file ready to go to Kinko’s if he can’t do it.”
Pause.
“None?” Lou rubbed her forehead with her free hand.
Pause.
“I’ll think of something.”
Pause.
The Coincidence of Coconut Cake Page 7