Editor's Note: This is the fifth and final part of an essay by Shepherd food writer Todd Lazarski. Read part one here, part two here, part three here and part four here.
“In this past I long for, I don’t remember how even then I longed for the past.”
— Denis Johnson
In the El Tsunami parking lot in mid-January snow turns tumor-black and gets pushed, in some unholy unseen hour, into jagged triangle wedges up against the brick building, clearing space for the subsequent gray slush and glut of cars and those cars’ passengers, all trying to avoid ice-flecked black puddles and questions of why any of us would live in such an environment so threatening to dry socks.
My daughter somehow eschews usually prominent stranger danger notions to cheerily, proactively, greet the panhandler just outside the door, leveling the playing field, at once, for all three of us, erasing discomfiture in smiling unexpectedness, seemingly validating good vibes therein. Inside, nursing a sportscar-red michelada, in a frosty mug of the size and depth and seriousness of an extra in that scene from Indiana Jones, the rim coated by a grainy quilt of spicy salt rendering the straw a silly suggestion, there is a pulse, well aside from the bumping telenovelas on all the TVs.
It almost feels like there is a no-sitting rule for children, as they bounce around, between tables, blurring the distinctions between families, pirouetting by waitress trays, skipping and skirting and flaunting even pre-pandemic social graces. Parents look appropriately tired, waitresses overwhelmed, the end-of-week Saturday reward day is aglow, salsa-amped and horchata sugar-lit, even before a wandering mariachi duo wanders in, seemingly at random, as if they were traversing South 13th in the 30-degree day in cowboy hats, with classical guitar and accordion. By the time the oompa of alternating bass line balladry and emotively stretched squeezebox reeds mix—table to table they go, for a palmful or two of cash—with the svelty green table sauce, the ceviche dip, the warm chips, fierce, charcoal-kissed carbon tacos, or greasy smoky housemade chorizo, or oily flaky fish, it is easy and instant to forget what life resembled back in the parking lot. We’ve all, communally, arm-in-arm, with collective vision, forged the perfect escape plan.
At Vanguard, when it’s summer, or spring, or any time when the Packers are not on and it’s not a wrestling night or Halloween, when there’s room for small chat and the usual backdrop—Soul Train, maybe an O.J. Simpson workout video—there is no better feel than happy hour with exactly one open swivel black chair near the end of the bar. Even though the bartenders render me not cool enough, probably too old, far from properly bearded, I will stake a claim, rope off my spot with a hoodie on the back of the seat, like delineating property lines, as close to Manifest Destiny as I might get, sticking out elbows just a bit in subtle “don’t tread on me” histrionics.
Menu Pondering
You can hover, sure, go ahead and take my drink menu, yes, food menu too, fine, ogle away at my curds and beer stein aioli all bloodied with house hot sauce, you can even talk close and ask for suggestions and pat me on the back when you lean over the shoulder to catch the barkeep’s eye. Just let me sit in the middle, in the beating heart, like the front row at a boxing match where part of the excitement is getting hit by a little sweat, like the Stubhub offerings we click just to see, front rows price tags to voyeuristically consider, to think what if? While I’m in, while the place fills to capacity—only now a nightmarish notion—-behind me, I slow-sip and savor a hungry evening bustle and a draft Manhattan, I delay gratification with menu pondering, possibility appreciating, before inevitably tackling a chili cheese dog, a Velveeta-blanketed and appropriately-named “Dirty Burger,” the whole thing a silly gesture of why not gluttonous indulgence, barely leaving room for the IPA I’m always about to order—like some kind of metaphor for the stuffed barroom itself.
These will be my first stops, when we’re all back, fully rubbing elbows, finding space in standing room only occasions. When we can be, what I’ve heard more than a few service industry folks refer to, “nuts to butts.” If and when the unidentifiable health metrics in my heart all check green, these are my buzzing Milwaukee mind spots, of food poetry yammering, of context being an ingredient, of flavor deriving as much from the atmosphere, as much from the flutter of a true peak social experience.
I think of an Istanbul market, the group teem, the contrasting currents of crowds lending pick-pocket anxiety, general personal space ruffling, some dangerous enticement to the prevalent smell of roasting, rotating meat; a pizzeria in Naples, needing to engage in mosh pit antics for a spot on the list; Steny’s, for an Eastern Conference Finals Bucks game. The times to eschew ease, embrace struggle, deal with an annoyance for this will be worth it. When all is well, again, when I can cruise the city streets, casually pop in for a taco or four, stop for a beer or beers, such spots are where I might set my aims. Once so small-town, so simple-minded, now the idea of someone handing me a menu is a memory seed I treat and water like the notion of the one that got away. Here are the daydreams I’m afraid to risk but keep tucked away in some kind of hope chest of sights to get back toward, one day, comfortably, normally, the good food times that come as much from the setting, from the moment, the people.
And I don’t even really like people.
Time to Burn?
Another thing I’m not crazy about—outside. And yet, here I am, often these days, and not just because the weather has turned friendly, ironically, as the country seems to burn, standing in my backyard, staring at the stars or the clouds, or the military-hued helicopters, sometimes, waiting for my gut, or my meat thermometer, to tell me it’s time to turn back to the Weber, flip the sausages, burgers. Always aggressively testing the tongs, grabbing at ghosts as they waft, I wistfully wonder how the maestros at Vanguard always avoid the flare-ups, the drying-out, nearly always get it all so right, the snap, one order after another, without looking like they are trying, cool in backwards hat insouciance, even when confronted by an endless stream of hungry scenesters.
Here I am, too, with makeshift picnics of Foxfire takeout fare, of taco truck tlayudas, cautiously staking a blanket claim or bench at Sheridan Park, its meandering jogging path and sweeping lake vistas leaving space for grass-tabled meals. Or at Humboldt Park, by the grimy pond that might as well be Walden’s, for the existential dread I’ve brought to it these past three months. It seems like a sanctuary of sorts, emblematic of anywhere there is space, really, from headlines, and health metrics, enough of it for nobody to be near enough to be afraid of.
But of course, there is no one to say gracias to after a salsa refill. There is fresh air, yes. And there is also the fending off of the geese, the dancing around of the geese poop, the chasing of napkins— inherent that any picnic venture provides at least this bit of Charlie Chaplin skit performance—and, inevitably, the throwing out of napkins because they probably touched some geese poop.
Still, with a double patty Foxfire burger, coated and buffed in salt and love and oozing American goo cheese, or with some foiled-taco steam, anywhere I might end up, today, isn’t so bad. And also, before wasn’t always good. The past is only painted in technicolor ideals in our minds, and especially now. Vanguard was many times just far too crowded, and sometimes, too many times, they forgot to toast my bun. And it felt too loud to even mention. Tsunami, despite my perpetual best efforts and bad dietary habits, has never cared I’m there, that I keep coming back, that I talk about it and write about it and bloviate.
Every time I hit the door, they almost always collectively look at me as if I’m lost or am about to ask to use the bathroom and then leave. In general, how many restaurant tables are too dirty? How much service is too slow? How many menus are so alike? Oh wow, look, a Southwestern Burger! How many bartenders have that attitude that this next shake of the shaker—no, this one, above the head!—could be the one to cure cancer, and how dare I interrupt or not be appropriately captivated?
The now, at least, has options. Such as, when it’s rainy, or too cold, or suddenly, too hot, we can sit in the car. The radio sounds better from in there anyways, the wind can’t steal and confetti-toss all the napkins like a cruel game of keep-away. We can think of ourselves as trying new things, embracing fresh thoughts, getting stains on our pants and shirts in different places, from different sit-and-eat situations. This month brings a new Bob Dylan album. It certainly won’t be Blonde on Blonde. It won’t even be Love and Theft. But there will be something you’ve never heard.
Likewise, tomorrow will bring something new, another distraction tactic, another approach, another appetite, and, if we’re lucky, another way to satisfy it.
Meanwhile, so much of the future seems to be being written for us, by unseen authors with little writing experience, the lot of them banging away on outlines behind scenes, on drafts where they can’t even fully commit to a genre. Post apocalypse-ism mixes with an economic playbook, fantasy meets self-help meets realism. Throughout, uncertainty seems to blend with malfeasance, announcements are unmade or surprise-made, or made and reversed, or misunderstood or ignored. Restaurants are not open, but tomorrow, at precisely 2 p.m., they can be and we will all be safe. Go ahead. Our reality, our way forward, seems tenuous, a bit dreadful, a venture out still coming with constant subconscious risk assessment, a survey of an unpredictable and maybe cataclysmic thunderstorm before a bike ride, the checks and balances on fun and need.
Skipping headlines for more than a few hours seems to be willful ignorance. But maybe it’s more simple: if I can’t safely see my restaurant servers face, this situation is probably not quite right.
In our bubbles, in our political allegiances, it was easy to know where to stand, especially gauged by the actions and virally-spread photos of a bunch of boneheads at a bar in Platteville, when the Supreme Court struck down caution and reason to make Wisconsin, again, a national laughing stock of unawareness. It seemed a slap in the face, the wake-up kind, a dose of belligerent selfishness. Yet, maybe history will see it all differently. Perhaps they, us, are all simply, naturally, hellbent on togetherness. On connection.
With the country seemingly schisming more by the day, with fractures leading to offshoot fractures, maybe we actually just need something, somebody, each other. We invented taco trucks, and then, eventually, taco truck parks, as if even our restaurants should socialize with each other. We came up with small plates so that the same table could legitimately hold, say, at La Merenda, goat cheese curds alongside Jamaican goat curry next to seared Sockeye salmon. And they could all become friends.
“Cheers” has always been so popular, held up, not just because it is pretty funny, but it represents an ideal, of comfortable cahoots, of escape from the real world. We can see, hope ourselves, there, all of us being our self-deprecating and whimsical best, with buds and brews and wisdom found. It represents a coming together, in the face of our absurd existence. A mariachi duo, or far too much to eat and drink, can show that our time is still now, that we—me, and you over there, at the same spot, in the same moment!—deserve something, sometimes.
These days I think often of a long-shuttered Bay View corner tap I used to freely and proudly proclaim to anybody listening as my Cheers. It was a strange, dim nook of the world I drank and wedged my way into, forging a musical and lyrical brand of late-night conspiracy.
By the time I became a regular, my bartenders, my Sam and my Woody, would occasionally let me stay after hours, would pour me a shot of Bulleit at 2:30, would joke about me having my “shift drink,” would not kick me out until I kicked myself out. We would bitch, complain, jostle, josh, give each other hurried TED Talks in the sporadic crowd lulls. I knew the names of their siblings, the health statuses of their dogs, they were invited to my wedding.
All those nights, eventually, I would stumble out the door, solo stagger home, bleary-eyed but content, untouchable to Monday, knowing, simply, far from sober but assuredly, somebody got me. In the hullabaloo existence of parking lots, indifferent masses, I had a spot. I don’t know when, I don’t know who will tell me it’s time, I don’t even know where, but I know I need to get back to that place.
Editor's Note: This is the fifth and final part of an essay by Shepherd food writer Todd Lazarski. Read part one here, part two here, part three here and part four here.
