Текст книги "The Coincidence of Coconut Cake"
Автор книги: Amy E. Reichert
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
• CHAPTER SIX •
Lou had another crappy day. Two in one week! She pulled the crumpled paper from her back pocket and smeared it smooth on the bar’s well-worn surface. Even though she’d nearly committed it to memory, she readied herself for another reading by gulping air and tensing her shoulders.
EAT AT YOUR OWN RISK
By A. W. Wodyski
Has chef Elizabeth Johnson ever met a cliché she hasn’t liked? Her basic French restaurant, Luella’s, stands as a museum to all French stereotypes—even the service was rude, though I sensed that was from incompetence rather than Francophile superiority. Black-and-white photos of the Eiffel Tower evoked generic Ikea art rather than trendy bistro decor, and bottles sprouting candles seemed to think they were Chianti, not Bordeaux. Too-long white linens draped too-small tables, adding the danger of toppling the table’s contents to the dining experience. I caught flashes of a bright kitchen behind silver doors, often eerily still from lack of to and fro.
I arrived on a moderately busy Wednesday, midway through service. The buzzy dining room seemed comforting at first, until I realized the hissing undercurrent was coming from the staff gathered near the coffee machine while their guests shuffled dirty plates and empty glasses around their tables.
Eventually a server found me, took my order, and scuttled away. As per my custom on first visits, I ordered the first item under each category. I believe these should represent the best a restaurant has to offer, showcasing the chef’s creativity and execution. My expectations weren’t high when their showcase pieces consisted of a seared foie gras topped with a Bordeaux reduction, a toasted-goat-cheese salad, traditional sole meunière, and a lemon soufflé. Little did I know my low expectations gave Luella’s too much credit.
It’s important to note good French food elevates the ingredients to a higher level. Exceptional French food transcends time and space, taking you on a gastronomical journey to a higher plane. It explores nuances and underdeveloped flavor notes in the ingredients; the final product becomes infinitely more than the sum of its parts. Alas, the only journey you’ll take after sampling the French food at Luella’s is to the restroom.
My early courses were passable but had a distracted air, as if the chef preparing them was watching the Food Network in the kitchen, hoping for helpful tips. The foie gras, an adequate slab, seared for flavor and topped with a decent wine reduction, would have been much improved with some crusty bread to smear it on, but my basket seemed to have gotten lost in the twenty feet between my table and the swinging silver doors.
The salad was a reasonable re-creation of something I can make in my own kitchen, and often do. The toasted goat cheese, crisply breaded in crumbs and warm through the center, sat atop lightly dressed spring greens, the kind found in clear plastic containers in the organic produce section. The vinaigrette was savory yet pedestrian. I’d expect the same thing from a bottle of Newman’s Own.
At this point in my meal, kept company by my dirty appetizer and salad plates, I waited and waited and waited for my entrée to arrive. At last, the sole meunière, a traditionally simple and elegant dish of Dover sole sautéed and topped with a butter sauce made of capers and lemon, arrived after an eternity in restaurant time (about 30 minutes after the salad). The chef somehow managed to serve it both charred and raw, a feat a more talented chef couldn’t do on purpose. The capers flecked the sauce like moldy Tic Tacs dropped on the floor, random and grim, lolling about in an underreduced liquid, sharp with uncooked alcohol. When I found a seemingly properly cooked bite, the fish tasted of cindery hate and cheap wine.
After I choked down as much dinner as possible, there was only one way to end the meal with my dignity (and intestines) intact. I requested the check and left the cash on the table rather than wait another interminable second for a waiter working toward the world record in slow service.
Named after a beloved grandmother (cloyingly noted on the menu), Luella’s failed to conjure images of a sweet grandma, passing down hallowed recipes with kindness and love. Instead, I was left with the picture of a wizened wicked stepmother bringing these dishes to a family reunion, still trying to off her beautiful stepdaughter.
You’ve been warned.
“Brutal” did not sufficiently describe the review’s vitriol. Lou took a long swig from her nearly empty pint, the faintly fruity liquid cooling the burning tears. A naked hand clung firmly to the worn glass. Wavy, rumpled brown hair half covered her face; her simple white T-shirt, wrinkled and stained, matched her disheveled hair. Her cheeks glowed red from staring down the shit storm known as her life (and maybe from the drinks). Her shoulders and back slumped, bearing the weight of an invisible globe. She’d hoped for a review, knowing Luella’s food and service were impeccable. It was just her luck Wodyski had picked her one off day to visit the restaurant.
When she’d arrived at work today, Sue had handed her the review and fifty dollars followed by a terse “I’ve got tonight.”
Lou had read the review as Sue watched her closely.
More than anything, she was embarrassed she hadn’t kept it together enough to work that night. Lou had shaken her head and said, “No. I can work, Sue. I’m not that pathetic. It’s one bad review.”
“I’m not saying this as an employee; I’m saying this as your best friend. You’ve earned a night off. I’ll join you after we close if you’re still standing.”
Having learned to listen to Sue’s good advice, she caved and left for her favorite pub, sucking down pints of cider—the good stuff. Nice and dry, the kind you’d find in a good English pub with a long, wooden bar worn smooth from centuries of old men in tweed drinking their daily pints—not the sweet crap with the varmint on the label. Her fourth pint would soon need refilling, but her rage and humiliation had started to mellow. Jerry already had her keys with instructions to call her a cab. No use adding a DUI to the smoldering heap her life had become the last few days. Yep, she planned to numb the pain with a cider-based anesthesia.
• • • • •
Al shoved open the pub’s heavy wooden doors and strode through with the confident swagger of a World Cup champion returning to his hometown. He was ready for a celebratory drink. The food section’s Friday edition peeked out from under his arm; a review by A. W. Wodyski headlined “Eat at Your Own Risk” dominated the page.
He removed the black fleece jacket he’d purchased at the bleak downtown mall. It was really too warm outside, quite different from how the day started. His shoes still squished a bit from the torrential downpours earlier. Faint red marks on his arm were the only evidence of the hail and icy rain he walked to work in. By noon, the sun shone. Milwaukee weather needed some form of meteorological Prozac. He didn’t mind the damp, chilly weather of London because at least it was consistent. The unexpected shifts in temperature and precipitation caused by the lake drove him mental, but it was Friday and his most scathing review to date had just come out. Al looked down the bar for an open stool and couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face. He walked forward to join the one person in Milwaukee he’d hoped he would see again.
“Oi! Miss Coconut Cake,” he said as he tucked his paper into his coat pocket.
She turned to look at Al, a tattered paper on the counter in front of her. He pasted what he hoped was a pleasant smile on his face. She wavered a little on her bar stool and squinted her eyes at him. Recognition lit on her face.
“Oh, you. Don’t call me that.” Lou turned back to her pint and shoved the paper into her purse as Al slid onto the stool next to her.
The barman walked over as soon as Al sat down.
“What can I get you?”
“I’ll have what the lady’s having,” Al said. The barman went off to pour him a pint of whatever filled her glass.
“Bad day?”
“Youse could say that.”
Miss Coconut Cake watched the bubbles rise in her drink, an adorable hiccup escaping her lips.
Al grabbed the pint the barman set in front of him and took a sip, then looked at her with surprise.
“Cider? Quite good cider. In Milwaukee? I thought this was the land of malty goodness.”
Annoyed, she scowled. “Yes, you’re drinking really good cider . . . in Milwaukee. Don’t be too shocked. We’re more than just beer and cheese.”
“Right, I hear the sausages are quite good, too.” Al gave a little smirk. “You from here?”
“Born ’n’ raised. You?”
“Just passing through.”
She raised her eyebrow, prompting for more details. Al leaned toward her.
“Work. I have to prove myself here first.”
“What do you do?”
Al paused, looked at the two college guys walking through the door, each wearing the local uniform of plaid shirt, jeans, and worn baseball cap.
He took a deep breath and said, “Write.”
Al waited for the inevitable follow-up question, but Lou was distracted with her fresh pint from Jerry.
“Oh . . . well, you should give it a chance. It’s wonderful here—especially summer.”
“You mean it gets warmer? Brilliant.” Al breathed a sigh of relief. She rolled her eyes and took a long drink of the cider. He normally avoided discussing work but decided to press his luck.
“So, what do you do?”
“No work talk.”
“That bad?”
“Worse. Oh, so much worse.”
Al nodded. He could avoid discussing jobs.
She took another long gulp.
“Are you going to be able to walk out of here?” Al asked.
“Not if Jerry fulfills his promise. He’s under strict instructions to serve me till I need to be rolled out the door.” She gave a saucy wink to Jerry.
“That’s your last one if you’re going to start flirtin’ with me,” Jerry said as he washed glasses behind the bar.
“So . . . what’s so wonderful about your little city?” Al asked.
“Everything.” Her eyes stared at the Irish flag hanging on the wall. “Summer’s full of festivals, ball games, grilling. In winter you stay cozy when the snow falls . . .” She shook her head to clear the fog and took a deep breath. “Fall walks through crunchy leaves. The spring thaw, everything grows. Yummy restaurants. Lotsa stuff to do for fun. Just go out and do.”
Al looked at her from the corner of his eye, a smile on his lips. “I’m new in town. It’d be nice to have someone to show me all these treasures.”
She glared at him suspiciously, his baby-blue eyes wide with feigned innocence, his smile making him seem more boyish than he already did. She smiled back.
“ ’Kay. I can do Mondays. Deal?”
“Deal.”
She fumbled with her bag, searched for a few minutes, then pulled out a pen and paper. She scrawled her name and number and handed it to Al.
“I’m Lou.” The charming Lou extended her hand to shake his. Al smiled, turned her hand so the back faced him, and gently brushed his lips across her knuckles, barely touching her skin. He could feel her tense—in a good way.
“I’m Al. It is my very great pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Lou blushed a little, pulled back her hand, then picked up the pint to finish it. When she stood to go to the bathroom, she wobbled and toppled forward. Al caught her in his arms, his body jumping to life as vanilla filled his head. Lou pushed against him to stand on her own. He pulled her in closer for one brief moment, a moment he could savor later, before he let her go.
“I’m dialin’,” Jerry said.
Al watched Lou teeter to the bathroom, feeling the folded paper in his hand and the hope it represented. For the first time since getting off the plane and seeing the snow-blasted airfields, he thought Milwaukee might not be so barren. After this last review, he knew his stay would be short—phone lines and inboxes already beeped with positive feedback. Soon he’d have the numbers to prove he could build a following in any city he chose.
Al sipped his cider. With his exit in view, Al felt more kindly toward the city. It might be nice to get a different perspective on the Milwaukee scene. Maybe he could end his brief tour of duty here on a positive note—find the one lone culinary gem and tout it to national fame.
Maybe he could take John’s advice after all, then move on to bigger and better markets. Al’s mind wandered toward images of pillow talk and pastries. It had been a long time since he’d had a pillow-talk-worthy partner.
He’d call Lou tomorrow to begin his education on all things Milwaukee. Al finished his cider and set two twenties on the counter, then told Jerry, “One is for her cab home.” Jerry nodded, and Al pushed his way back out the doors into the warm evening. With the smack of crisp cider fresh on his lips, he looked at the number scrawled on the lined notepad paper. Lou’s wobbly script was like a secret code he could decipher, the missing link between his writing success and a little personal happiness.
• • • • •
In the bathroom, Lou avoided her reflection. The black-and-white tile wavered around her. She rubbed the back of her hand. The hand that felt numb from cider ten minutes ago tingled with sensation. She hadn’t tingled in years. Probably just the effect of the day’s emotions—and all the cider.
She set her hands on the white porcelain, leaned forward, and banged her head on the smudged mirror. The cool surface provided a focal point for her thoughts.
What am I going to do?
Still leaning into the mirror, she pulled out her phone and dialed the restaurant. Two rings and she heard Alison say, “Bonjour, Luella’s. How can I help you?”
“Hey, Alison. It’s Lou. Transfer me to Sue, please.”
“One second, Lou.”
Lou tried to push herself off the mirror before Sue picked up, but couldn’t.
“Why are you calling?” Sue asked.
“How bad is it?”
“We can talk tomorrow.”
“I need to know.”
“How many ciders have you had?”
“Four. No, five. No, four. I don’t know.”
Sue paused for ten seconds.
“Two canceled, three didn’t show. A lot fewer walk-ins than normal. I sent Tyler home early.”
“He only came once, Sue.”
“I know.”
“He said Grandma Luella was the wicked stepmother.”
“He’s the lowest of the low.”
Lou scrunched her face in frustration, smearing the mirror more.
“He’s a twat-waffle. A candy-coated asshattery douche bag. The douchiest of all douche bags.”
“I know.”
Lou moaned into the phone. Sue continued, “We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
Lou whimpered. “I gotta go. Thanks for everything.”
Lou pushed back from the mirror and looked at herself. The drunk look never worked for her. Her cheeks were red, hair like a haystack after a tornado; even her clothes looked as if she’d slept in them. Was that cheese on her shoulder? Lou took a wet paper towel and vaguely scrubbed at it. Her hand-eye coordination lacked the accuracy necessary to remove the stain. Tears of frustration and humiliation rained fast and furious on her hot cheeks. With her phone still in hand, she pushed the voice mail button and listened again to the message Devlin left earlier that day.
“Lou, I saw the article. I’m so sorry you had to experience such a negative review. Call me and I’ll help. I can help you.”
Lou held the phone to her mouth and said to the recording, “It’s your fault. You aren’t a hero—you don’t get to help now that it’s doomed.” Lou punched the Delete button and used her sleeve to sop up the tears. It wasn’t fair, but it didn’t matter now. Time to focus on reality.
The tiled floor shifted under her feet.
Maybe reality could wait.
She wondered if Al would call. That caused her stomach to do a flip—a drunken, sloppy flip, but a flip nonetheless. She vowed not to discuss work or jobs with him. He’d be her escape from reality. Never mind that her lungs had stopped when he’d caught her and her hands itched to feel what hid under his neat, preppy appearance. She’d always kept her impulses grounded, but tossing her cautions in the air with Al might keep her occupied while life as she knew it blew away.
• CHAPTER SEVEN •
Al smoothed the wrinkled paper on his desk with his right hand as his left cradled his phone close to his ear, the thud of his heart threatening to drown out the ringing. With each trill, it beat harder. He held his breath as he waited for an answer. The clock on his laptop said 12:15 p.m.—more than enough time for Lou to have slept off her cider.
His throat didn’t work properly when the voice mail kicked in, as he scrambled to find the words that wouldn’t make him sound like a bumbling fool.
“Hello, Lou. It’s Al . . . from the pub . . . and the newsstand line. Anyway, just wanted to set a date for you to reveal Milwaukee’s good qualities. My number is 414 . . .”
Click.
“Hold on—I have to turn off the machine.” Lou’s voice interrupted his message. He heard a click, followed by a beep, followed by a “Crap.” Then Lou continued, “Sorry, I was getting out of the shower.”
“Excellent. I mean . . . good for you . . . I mean. When would you like to start?”
“Start?” Lou asked.
“My challenge. You promised to prove Milwaukee’s greatness last night. Please tell me you remember?”
“No. I do. I just didn’t think you were really serious.”
“Oh no, I take challenges quite seriously. Reneging will bring shame on you and your city.”
“Okay, fine.” Lou chuckled. “How about in two weeks? That Monday? That’s the earliest I can do it. I’ll text the details when I have them.”
“Fantastic.”
Al hung up the phone and circled the date on his desk calendar.
• • • • •
Two weeks postreview and Lou still struggled with the bad news.
“You okay?” Sue asked over the flush of the toilet, forehead wrinkled in concern.
Lou wiped her face with a damp brown paper towel, the wet-paper smell nearly sending her back into the stall. She threw it away and tried to get the faucet sensors in the bathroom to acknowledge her existence. She finally managed to splash cool water on her face and gave Sue a weak nod.
“You should go. We aren’t even open today.”
“I’m not letting you do this on your own.” Sue frowned at her.
“Fine, let’s get back to the books.”
“How about a coffee break?”
“No, I need to know how bad it is.”
“Well, Harley and I agreed, we aren’t leaving, and Gertrude and Otto promised to be here, too. So at least we’ll have one steady table.”
Lou smiled, but it melted into a frown. Business had declined more. Lou and Sue worked the numbers every possible way. The restaurant closed on Mondays to give the staff a break, but now they’d close on Sundays, too. While they still had a few regulars and a scattering of new customers who either didn’t read the paper or didn’t care, it wasn’t enough. There were even a few who visited to experience the same awfulness as A. W. Wodyski and seemed disappointed with the considerate service and perfectly prepared French food.
They returned to the desk, papers pushed back to make a work surface for the calculator, and scribbled numbers. Lou’s hope disappeared with the bottom line, little by little, until it melted into a lonely black hole. She had to find a way to make this better.
“We barely made black before the review. It was just enough to keep me in green Crocs and polyester chef pants. I don’t see how we’ll turn a profit now.”
Lou stared at the numbers.
“You should close it. Soon. Then take whatever is left and open a new place, like the one you mentioned a few weeks ago. I’ve checked the websites—the trolls are having a field day on BrewCityReviews.”
“Online reviews are a bully’s outlet. Smart people know that.” Lou waved dismissively.
Sue pointed at the computer screen.
“That says differently. It’ll take years to overcome the bad press and troll reviews.”
Biting her lip, Lou moved a stack of receipts into a shoe box on the floor and noticed a sparkle under some papers.
“I have some savings. There’s a little cushion.” She pulled out her engagement ring. “Maybe I could sell this. And I’ve contacted a few banks for loans. That should get us through. We can stay open. And who knows—a miracle could happen.”
She stacked the papers and turned off the computer. Sue leaned back in her chair, watching Lou struggle to keep it together. Lou blinked several times, then stood.
“I guess we can head out.”
“Hot date?” asked Sue with a smirk on her face. She always knew what to say to change up Lou’s emotions. Lou smiled and wiped away an errant tear.
“You know it isn’t a date. I’m merely a tour guide to the many delights of Milwaukee.”
“Do they include the ones in your bedroom?”
“No.” Lou’s face pinkened. “I’m not ready for that.”
“But fun to think about.”
Lou remembered Al’s arms when he caught her at the bar, and his soft, smiling lips.
“Yes, definitely fun to think about.”
“Where’re you taking him?”
“We’re starting with the basics, beer and cheese.”
Lou grabbed her coat and keys, leaving Sue to lock up the restaurant and hoping for a few hours of fun and distraction. The preoccupation of planning their outing had helped her through the rough two weeks since she’d seen him last, like the weeks leading up to Christmas as a child: waiting in the glow of Christmas lights for dawn to break, guessing what might be wrapped under the tree, hoping for the mini kitchen she had dreamed of playing with ever since she saw it in the Sears Christmas catalog. Her mom would distract her with Christmas jobs such as draping silver tinsel on the bottom tree branches, frosting cookies shaped like reindeer and snowflakes, and hanging the bright red stocking on the mantel, a promise of goodies to come.
All the dreams and guesses and preparation made the anticipation so sweet, almost better than unwrapping the gifts themselves. That was what this nondate with Al felt like. Would he look as good as she remembered through the cider-fueled fog? Would she want to see him again? Could he appreciate the charms of Milwaukee? She knew she’d get the answer to that final one. She had picked the best custard stand in the city as his test. If he could enjoy the simple but satisfying joys of a classic Wisconsin butterburger and creamy custard, then he might be worth the time.
Lou opened her car door and could smell the restaurant wafting off her clothes. She needed to shower and change. A frivolous afternoon spending time with someone completely unrelated to her work life would be the ideal distraction from the impending war.
• • • • •
Al whistled as he walked toward Lake Michigan where he would meet Lou for their first outing. He whistled? When was the last time he whistled? She had texted him a few days ago. It said:
Lesson 1—The Basics
11:30 am Monday
Northpoint Custard
Meet me at Daisy.
Northpoint Custard was one of the many custard stands in Wisconsin that served burgers, fried sides, and frozen custard. In his short time in Milwaukee, he had heard a lot about frozen custard but hadn’t tried it yet. It sounded a lot like ice cream, so his curiosity and anticipation soared. Perhaps his anticipation derived from the who, not just the what. Lou popped up often in his daydreams: her warm eyes, creamy skin, even her scars. Where were those from? Not many women could pull off the drunken-mess look, but Lou had been adorable and charming and a bit intoxicating. And the cake—he couldn’t forget the smell of that coconut cake.
The sun almost burned after so many days without it. Al walked on the sidewalk following the shoreline, ignoring the blister forming on his heel from the stiff shoes he wore. He’d never walked the lakefront before, but it seemed the appropriate way to start his time with Lou. The custard stand was a little north of the marina. The area swarmed with kite fliers, walkers with dogs, and adorable elderly couples walking hand in hand. Outside of the breakwater, he could see a handful of brave souls sailing their boats for the first time this season on the chilly spring waters. It might have felt like seventy degrees to him, but it was much colder past the rocks.
While two weeks had passed since he last saw her, but his encounter with Lou had stuck and grown, like his memories of summer camp. As a child, he would forget the awkward moments and bad food once back at home, the memories growing more golden with each passing day. After two weeks, he knew he had inflated the memory of Lou beyond reasonable expectations. Would she still smell like vanilla? Would the freckles on her nose still dance when she smiled? Would his memory implode when faced with the reality?
He saw the custard stand’s red awnings up ahead, nestled among several large, old trees. Lou had instructed him to meet her at Daisy. As he crossed the last street and approached the custard stand, her meaning became obvious. Every table and bench was painted to look like a Holstein cow—white with black spots—each with an appropriately bovine name like Bessie or Maisy painted on its surface. Sure enough, Lou waited, fingers tapping and feet dancing, at the table named Daisy.
His feet moved faster as he took in the sight of her. She fit right in with her basic blue jeans, simple V-neck brown T-shirt, and tan Converse sneakers. She dressed casually, but Al couldn’t help admiring how the brown T-shirt offset her pale, creamy skin and the sun found bits of red in her long hair. He hadn’t seen her with her hair combed before and he liked it. It looked soft, smooth, and free, like she didn’t use hair spray or gel—touchable. He stopped in front of her.
“You’re late,” Lou said. “I’m glad I didn’t order when I got here fifteen minutes ago. Our food would be cold.” She tried to scowl, but Al could see the corner of her mouth twitch. She looked him up and down and said, “You’re a bit dressed up for a custard stand on the lake. You look like Tim Gunn on vacation.”
Al looked down at his front-creased khaki dress pants, his tucked-in navy blue polo over a white T-shirt with a matching belt and shoes. True, no one would mistake him for a native Milwaukeean on his way to have a burger and shake at the beach. He even moved with a stiffness from too many hours spent hunched in front of a computer.
He shrugged. “That’s why I’m here. So you can show me the fantastic Milwaukee and make me a convert.”
Lou’s freckles danced and his chest lightened. He had had it all wrong. His memories were dim compared to the reality.
Lou stood and said, “I’ll order a little of everything to share so you can get a good cross section. Save our spot. Is there anything you really don’t like?”
“Not at all; I’ll eat anything,” Al said. He was tempted to say cheese but didn’t think he could pull it off with a straight face. Al and cheese had a love affair predating puberty. In his opinion, Wisconsin’s cheese fanaticism was one positive among the many negatives.
“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.
