Beer, Brats and the Street Where I Lived

Big-shouldered Chicago was a charmer, with drop-dead architecture, great food and people who walked up to you every time you stopped to look at a street sign to ask if you needed help. We fantasized living in one of the stunning condos on the Chicago River – maybe a converted warehouse loft – as we drifted along on an architectural history cruise.
We stayed with friend and former St. Helenan Gabby, enjoying catching up, some birthday bubbly and a dinner that showed she learned a thing or two during the years she spent with Julia Child Lincoln (fluffy, white) and Lily (short-hair, black) provided feline yin and yang. We walked the Loop, delighting in blue skies and balmy temperatures, rode the El and took pictures in Millennium Park to the lively mariachi strains of a free Latin music festival underway. The El into the city was itself a delight, not underground and claustrophobic like the Paris Metro, but running on elevated tracks, offering glimpses of weathered brick buildings, tree-lined streets and the occasional voyeuristic view into someone’s window.
And we ate: standing in line at 10:30 a.m. for Hot Doug’s, the “Sausage Superstore and Encased Meat Emporium.” After 45 minutes in line we were well-versed in the menu of specialty brats and eagerly ordered duck fat fries and the Sauternes duck and foie gras dog topped with chunks of foie gras, truffle aioli, foie gras mousse and fleur de sel. Be still my heart! Was ever a breakfast better? No wonder Doug’s a cult favorite, with Tony Bourdain among its fans. We ate outside where the throngs of eager customers couldn’t hear our moans of delight.
Hot tropical colors and shaken-at-the-table margaritas set the stage for brunch at the Rick Bayless paean to Mexico, Frontera Grill, where I had a tasty torta de elote, combining sweet yellow corn and the exotic black corn fungus. We hadn’t begun to see the Windy City, but it was time to move on and we left to retrace our path back to Milwaukee under gray skies and light rain.
With Happy ensconced at the Wisconsin state fairground not far from downtown, we headed into the city. Steep church spires pierced the moisture-heavy skies between modern high-rises and buildings seemingly plucked from the banks of the Rhine. So this was my hometown? The half-timbered architecture evoked der Vaterland, but I missed the hoppy smell of brewing beer, gone along with many of Milwaukee’s breweries.
But the residents still drink beer the way Napa Valley drinks wine. “Cheers”style neighborhood taverns offer two-for-one specials during Packers’ games, free beer on ladies’ night and Friday fish fries. We even spotted a rolling pedal-powered tavern in the historic Third Ward, its occupants hoisting steins of suds as they negotiated the streets, The darkened, beery interior of Klinger’s East triggered childhood memories of family visits to similar spots like the Elbow Room, where my Uncle Ralph served up cocktails to my parents and Cokes with cherries to my sister and me.
Living in the suburbs as a child, I remembered little of the city, so a drive along the lakefront and its solid European style mansions was a revelation. Nowhere else had we seen such a concentration of breathtaking houses mile after mile after mile, their backs to the vast Great Lake, their fronts often buffered from view by a forest of maples and beech.
Away from the lakefront we visited the Pabst mansion, the last of Milwaukee’s grand 19th-century mansions, the rest leveled over the years to build student housing for nearby Marquette University.
We hit the foodie high spots of town, wriggling into the tight wooden ‘50s era booths at Jake’s for the best corned beef since Katz’s in New York. Kopp’s Kustard (two flavors daily, served from the machine’s it’s made in) was silky and rich beyond Italy’s best gelato. Karl Ratzch’s sauerbraten, Black Forest veal and spaetzle did not disappoint, especially when accompanied by the Teutonic décor and a bottle of crisp Mosel. And we made a pilgrimage to Usinger’s, the mecca for encased meat-eaters, to stock up on their smoked pork chops, brats and other legendary products.
But the thrill of our stay was a drive to Wauwatosa, to visit 2471 N. 91st Street, the house where I lived from kindergarten through junior year in high school. I braced myself for the inevitable changes – a run-down neighborhood of barren sidewalks, the big street trees we knew having been planted long before Dutch elm disease came to town.
The streets were still tree-lined, although now mostly with maples, and the houses well-kept. I recognized our old house without seeing the address and we parked across the street. It looked better than ever! A huge addition in back was hidden from the street, making the house and the entire neighborhood, appear little changed. There, at the top left, was the window to the bedroom where, captive in my bunk bed with a miserable case of chicken pox, I read my horse books and sketched rearing stallions. There was the driveway where, one balmy summer evening, my friend Bobbie waited on her bike while I struggled to finish the awful stuffed bell pepper my mother had made for dinner.
It was here I collected marbles and trading cards, learned to ride a bike and roller skate, dodged snowballs from that mean kid from down the street as I walked home from school and smoked cigarettes with girlfriends in the upstairs bathroom.
I rang the bell and a pretty young blond woman appeared at the door. “I grew up in this house,” I began. “We lived here from 1951 to 1960 ands this is the first time I’ve been back.” Knowing it was very nervy, I asked if there was any chance we could look inside. She hesitated, muttering something about people who do this to “come inside and rob you.”
“I know it’s a huge imposition…” I continued. “We were the first family to live here.” She opened the door. The front hallway, staircase and living room with fireplace were the same, the carpeting we’d had replaced with hardwood floors. The dining room led not to a screened porch, but to an expansive new addition which included a large modern kitchen. But the milk chute was still there by the back door, now nailed shut. And the knotty pine paneled basement rec room was little changed, now as then a place for kids to play, with a grownup bar for adults.
Her young sons would be going to the same school down the street my sister and I attended, said Katie. The street had block parties and was full of young families. In fact, she continued, 91st was considered the best street in town. They loved the house and wanted to stay there forever.
Sometimes you can go home again.
Here are photos:
http://picasaweb.google.com/happytwo.mcwilliams/TripEast4ChicagoMilwaukee?authkey=Gv1sRgCLXM-uDdup2oZA&feat=directlink