Near perfect concepts, far-ranging ideas, everyday breakfasts, favorite foods, local destinations, ongoing adventures, tacos…
Visual representation (may have to scroll down): EARTH FROM THE MOON
AS EVERYONE post-pandemic-lockdown who decided to move to a new place, change jobs, alter relationships, and rethink vocations knows—sometimes time off forces you to change your approach—even if there was nothing wrong with the approach.
End of Book One. On with Book Two.
—Randy Russell, 7.29.21
I took the bus out here, South Side, West 60s, and it's like traveling to another town—it's West Allis, so it technically is—but it's also technically not—it's still Milwaukee—but it feels like another town. If you're in a car, or even on a bike, it doesn't feel very foreign, but when a bus drops you off somewhere you've never been before, on foot, it feels like you've beamed down from the Enterprise, though without McCoy, Spock, and the poor guy with the red shirt. When Kirk, for whatever reason, occasionally goes alone like that he usually “falls in love”—meaning there are humans there, or an enticing humanoid in a very revealing dress. This never happens to me, kind of sad, but then Kirk never comes upon four Mexican restaurants in a few block area. Choosing is hard, it's rolling the dice; I went with Al Pastor because it was number four, it was time, and I liked the friendly look of the place, a simple freestanding brick rectangle with a flat roof sloping dramatically upward in front like a dairy-bar from the Sixties—though I have no guess how old the place is—I'd say it's either fairly recent or kept up very well. There are maybe eight tables inside and a few were occupied temporarily by people waiting for takeout. People and their takeout—well, I suppose some are returning to their spaceship. I didn't examine the menu for too long before settling on my old standby, Huevos a la Mexicana, but then kind of regretted not at least considering the weekend special, Menudo—though I'd have had to figure out its gluten-free-ness, and see if “beef stripe” is something I can stomach. I got the impression this is a family owned and run place, very warm and friendly, and at least one of them is an excellent cook, because the food was delicious, including the salsas, especially this green one in a squeeze bottle that I couldn't get enough of. The only negative thing I have to say about the whole visit is that there were two TVs (what else is new?) with the sound on, some hideous show called “Criminal Minds”—though I guess I wouldn't have complained if the TV had on soccer, or even better, the original Star Trek.
I don't get out to Jalapeño Loco often, as it's on the highway by the airport, and so when I took the bus out there today I felt like I should be going somewhere much further away. Oaxaca, perhaps? Even though I ate here once before and remembered that there was an interesting menu, I didn't remember that they specialize in Oaxacan dishes. I really should, occasionally, do some research in advance, but sometime I just jump on the bus on a whim. Anyway, I'll return to places I like, thus making this project truly infinite, or at least life-long. For some reason, in the mood for a fish taco, I got Tacos de Pescado, which came with rice and beans, and also guacamole, and was enough for two of me. I took a taco home, and normally tacos don't hold up, but I'm eating it now—best dinner I've had in awhile. The fish was a poem. The food here is very good—it's not the cheapest Mexican food around, but it's inexpensive when you think of it as fine dining, which it is. Plus, my lunch with tax, at $16.20, with a tip, came to 2020—this year's winner! I guess this place has been open for over 20 years in this odd structure, and when you enter, you're transported to supper-club past times—pleasingly dark, with heavy wood beams on slanted ceilings, and a huge stone fireplace separating the bar and dining room side. I sat on the bar side this time, very atmospheric—my only complaint is the large TV. I guess every place with a bar feels like it has to have a TV, but why? I knew someone once, in San Francisco, who had a list of the bars without TVs, and that's where they'd frequent—but do those places even exist anymore? Also, many people seem to prefer, for whatever reason, brightly lit, wide open spaces with hard surfaces—uncomplicated spaces visually, but then with audio chaos and noise. Afraid of darkness, silence, books, and mystery. I'm sorry, I mean that's some people—but I think anyone would appreciate the comfortable feeling here, and there was some kind of Mexican music playing that I could not identify but sounded good. Then I remembered that about ten years ago, Jalapeño Loco briefly opened a place in Mequon, in the old, sadly closed Alpine Village—a place that had once been one of the Seven Wonders of the Restaurant World. It makes sense to me, now, that someone who has created this lovely atmosphere would be interested in reviving that place (I desperately tried to imagine a scheme to buy it, myself), but apparently it didn't work out (the place was enormous, very old, and in BF Wisconsin) and last I heard, they were going to demolish it. The only certain things: death, taxes, and cool shit will be torn down and replaced by Walgreens. That's why it's important to appreciate what's left, and now, so this place should be one of your destinations of wonder.
Contrary to what you might think when you first hear the name, Cloud Red isn't an airborne toxic event or a suburban rugratz soccer team, it refers to red-winged blackbirds, I think, and this success story of a local watering hole might seem like a Mexican food stretch, but the three times I've been here they had tacos, and this time nachos, as well. In fact, I wrote a review four years ago during my first failed attempt to write about all the tacos in the tri-state area (now buried deep in the internet) and besides making the same joke about the name, I recall that I experienced an appetizer called “Amaizeballs”—which while, kind of gross, is, if nothing else, at least a pun incorporating Spanish. I'm not totally sure what makes this place tick (well, it's a bar, duh, alcohol), but I'm guessing someone in the kitchen has a passion for making delicious food their own way while still keeping it fun. I may be wrong, but I sense a good spirt here. Plus, gluten-free options. The place was full on a weekend night, and were I alone I would have been sunk, seeing how there was maybe only one seat at the bar, no doubt next to a beautiful, single person, and I would have been inevitably off on another one of my suburban misadventures. As luck would have it, however, I visited with friends: Sara, Mark, and Lauryl, and speaking of luck, the party in the unique four person sidewalk bay window booth was just leaving, so we commandeered it like the urban pirates we are. And it was especially exciting for me because of my obsession with bay windows, mostly because they lead the conversation to: iceboating on Barmet Bay, dogs, deadly soup leaves, sea sickness, aftershave, band names, and 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). My shrimp taco had one too many ingredients, but seeing how one of them was grilled shrimp, why quibble? It was a fine taco. We also ordered nachos for all—not the whole bar, but seeing how these nachos just kept coming, it would've worked. These were some nachos, they just kept coming, with all the usual nacho things, including pulled pork, jicama salsa, and three types of cheese bubbling up. We all seemed to eat kind of a supernaturally lot of these nachos, and then I put the remainder in a to-go box and am still eating them at press time.
After a sad and desperate work week I mass-texted a pathetic call for a secret meeting at Conejito's but didn't really expect anyone to respond to my last-minute, individualized guilt-trips (“if no one responds I'll just: steal a car and drive out west; go to Qdoba; jump off the Hoan”) to what might be chaos at Margarita-time, but to my surprise, Armahn said he'd “swoop me” in his red Volvo, so I took the streetcar halfway there. (No one asked me, but I would have designed the streetcar to loop between Real Chili, Conejito's, and The Domes.) It's a tough place for a secret meeting because they have a lot of rules, won't seat groups greater than 15, or anyone until all the members of the party arrive, but no one else could make it—though, at least Armahn invited his friend Mauricio, who I'd never met, so three constitutes a meeting, I always say. I haven't been to Conejito's Place in so long I half expected cobwebs and one old guy at the bar—but of course, your next generation (and next) have discovered it, so it's thriving more than ever. There are two sides: too dark dive bar side, and too bright dive bar side, and we got seated in too bright, but you can't argue. I did notice that the hanging planters are still in the dark side, though the dead plants have been replaced with ghost plants. I did miss the jukebox that sounds like it's playing full volume in a bomb shelter a block away. Armahn had tacos (they only have tacos with flour tortillas, which I find strange), and I had my usual, cheese and onion enchiladas, rice and beans. I literally find myself craving these particular enchiladas about once a week, and they haven't changed. It's been so long since I was here, I half expected that they'd now have organic, cave-aged gorgonzola enchiladas with hand-massaged sustainable field greens on small plates, but to my relief it was still orange cheese, a piece of lettuce, a monthly sodium allowance, and paper plates—which become amazing art by the end of the meal. If I become a regular again, I might save the plates, let them dry, and propose a gallery show. (What? Someone's already done that?) Speaking of which, I need to get back to visual art. Armahn is an artist, and Mauricio (I since looked him up, Ramirez) is this amazing painter of these giant murals. He was doing some kind of design wizardry on some kind of an iPad device while we ate, and as I watched him, my heart sank a little, just knowing how the world has passed me by, with my colored pencils and protractor. Though, I realize that every day, when my remotely located boss gets annoyed that I can't remember how to “share my screen” and when to meet on “hangouts” and when to meet on “chat.” We're not paying you $11.73 an hour just to clean, answer phones, and run a mailroom—you also need to know how to hack into the Pentagon weapons systems—and when did all this happen? The world isn't passing me by, the tense is now past, and the dirty secret is that Soylent Green won't even be secret, it will be expensive—on small plates with organic balsamic pomegranate vinaigrette.
The last three Saturdays in a row have had almost identical snowy weather which, while cheering me up, makes it hard to walk, and on this one, after almost falling on my ass twice in one block, I decided to go to the nearest place with coffee and call it a morning. But as I rounded a corner, a snowblower came right at me down the sidewalk, and also there was a bus coming down the block, and I happened to be at a bus stop, so I jumped on. You could call this the taco bus, as it's the one that hits Cesar Chavez, Greenfield, Mitchell, Lincoln, the South Side—but I stayed on to Forest Home, thinking I might settle for the Brass Key—but then noticed El Jimador's “open” sign and jumped off at S. 35th Street and waded over. I've been by there a thousand times and never noticed the place, my mind probably dismissing it as merely a bar, which it kind of looks like and likely used to be. Going in the front door was one of those experiences I savor, entering a place for the first time, which you can only do once, as I felt like I had both traveled a great distance, far from my home, and also traveled in time at least several decades past. The walls are log-cabin-style dark wood that looks like a super club or roadhouse in the North Woods, and there are those oblong octagonal windows I associate with taverns. I was the only customer that early, besides two workmen sitting at the bar watching soccer. I had to use the bathroom and went further into the past, as the urinal looked old enough to be a museum piece and was set into the floor with crude but beautiful mosaic shards. The waitress was very nice, the menu included breakfast, so I ordered Huevos a la Mexicana, which came with rice and beans and corn tortillas. It was a hearty breakfast, and just perfect for the snow coming down out the window, and the Spanish language soccer broadcast, and writing in my notebook. Only later did I look up El Jimador and see it's a brand of tequila (I wouldn't have ordered any had I known), named after the agave farmer, or harvester—so, tequila, tequila, tequila, but I stayed warm and dry. Anyway, it was a fine morning, and for ten dollars—to feel simultaneously at home and worlds apart, just like that—you don't have to be a millionaire.
There was another blizzard, for the second Saturday in a row, and because I'm someone who says he likes the snow (I actually do), I had to put my money where my mouth is and go out in the driving wind, on the icy walkways, through the drifts and slush, and put a taco where my mouth is (so to speak). This time I went to the Central Library, on Wisconsin (unread books were due), and I checked out DVDs in case it kept on snowing for three weeks. Then headed for this new place my google map located, called Lazo's, which is a few doors off Wisconsin on James Lovell Street—named after the astronaut who, like me, is from Ohio but relocated in Milwaukee. It's called Shack, which is funny, since it's new, a little design-y, and doesn't resemble a shack at all. Upon entering, I panicked a little and asked if I could sit at a “low” chair—as opposed to the high chairs—there are both. I'm glad places have both—but I don't know who can sit at those high ones—giants, I suppose. I could have eaten those chips and salsa all day, fresh, citrus-y, onion-y, cilantro-y. I had two tacos, carnitas and al pastor—and it was the perfect lunch. I felt that not over-ordering (and thus overeating, as in three tacos, rice, and beans) was a major coup in judgment. One of the owners asked how I heard about the place, told me how they've been working on it awhile. The spot used to be a Subway, when the Badger Bus was next door. Every time a Subway closes, an angel gets his/her wings. In a world that seems like it's turning to shit daily, what fills your heart with song more than stopping in a new, privately owned taco restaurant where the people are nice and the food is delicious? In other words, life-affirming.
Las 7 Estrellas (The Seven Stars) opened a few years ago—I saw it on the map and ate there, liked it a lot, but didn't get around to returning until recently when I found myself fearing that it might close due to my lack of support. Which is ridiculous, of course, but it's funny how the more disconnected one is from cosmic events, the more one feels personally responsible—while, at the same time, professing no responsibility for one's own life and behavior! Humans! Tucked into a little shopping plaza between a smoke shop and a tattoo parlor, I'm not sure if this is a good or bad location—it's next to the Target on Chase Ave., and if you ever shop at Target you can appreciate the soul-cleansing quality of post-shopping tacos at an independently owned diner—or maybe just the need for a drink. Chase is a driving street, so I don't find myself on it too often, but S. Howell Ave., in Bay View, is a good walking street, and you can reach this place via a secret route of short residential blocks. They have a pretty snazzy website letting you in on their origin (they evolved from a taco truck), and they have a really interesting menu that I'd like to check out more, including some intense sounding seafood. I had some kind of tacos first time here, and this time a huarache dinner, with fried eggs on it—I kind of made it my late breakfast—even though it was well past noon. This was the darkest, wintriest day of winter yet. Not a lot of people out on this day—someone came in for takeout looking like they were experiencing the weather as a personal affront. Humans! I had missed two busses, since apparently icy sidewalks cause buses to run erratically—but the place immediately put me in a good mood, as I sat facing the Christmas tree and drank horchata. Too much food—I took some home, and it was a fine dinner. Generally, Las 7 Estrellas warmed my heart, and I plan on returning soon, most likely for a secret meeting or some otherwise mysterious rendezvous.
I titled this article with a phrase that I then remembered was a band back in the Seventies, though I didn't buy their records then; naturally they're still together—it's Chick Corea's jazz-fusion band. Oh well, I like the name, and it came to me while thinking about how this restaurant was open long before I moved to Milwaukee in 2000, as Jalisco's, but in the last year changed its name to Judy's On North—and regardless of the name, we can only hope it outlives us all. It's pretty much the same place—the odd triangular space (my favorite kind of space), but big, spacious (except for the men's toilet), welcoming, warm, clean, and comfortable (except for the men's toilet). Really, is this not the epicenter of Milwaukee? It's a short walk to Bradford Beach, the indispensable Oriental Theatre, and cornerstones Von Trier, Beans & Barley, Ma Fischer's, and the East Library. It's the kind of area you could imagine sprouting a Whole Foods (and then the Whole Foods sprouting a bar). Also the location of my biggest regret—moving here after the demise of the legendary Oriental Pharmacy. My first Milwaukee apartment was a block away, as well. Judy's is on the ground floor of this amazing old Clock Tower Building (it just occurred to me that I must rent an office upstairs, when I start my detective agency). I'm sure the longtime fans didn't go away with the name change—it's still open to 4 AM on weekend nights—I remember after-hours visits years ago—though I've only eaten here a handful of times over the years. I have two observations, and one is that I seem to remember mosaic tiled tables, but seeing how I have over 14,000 photos on my phone, it might take me awhile to confirm this. The booths have been remodeled, are basic brown, and so I miss those old tables—but anyway, the seating couldn't be any more comfortable, so you've got that. And based on a couple visits and a faulty memory, I'm going to say that the quality of the food has gone up. I had my current usual, Huevos a la Mexicana, and it was a delicious version, along with rice and beans, and a very spicy red salsa. It even comes with a corn tortilla and cheese quesadilla. They are open late, and for lunch, every day, but closed Sunday, which is probably a sound decision, since you can't compete with the brunch hot-spots or the Packers. You can drink here, if you want to, and they have some of those ingenious Margarita Slurpee machines. I find it comfortable and comforting—it could be my home away from home, or second office, for eating, drinking, and meeting clients—just downstairs from Ray Speen, Investigations.
The unseasonably warm weather has me feeling out of sorts, so when I was up early and unable to concentrate on work, I asked the internet who was open for breakfast. A map showed this place I'd never heard of, and when I looked at the “street view,” it appeared to be a George Webb! But I figured things might have changed, as they often do, and sometimes even for the better. I rushed out to catch a bus before the dreaded sun showed itself and in no time was over on Mitchell Street, west of the Historic, until I came to the “Open” sign of Restaurant Y Taqueria La Esperanza—possibly the first breakfast customer of the day. I sat in a corner booth and looked around. Definitely a former George Webb, which brought back a memory. On my saddest Christmas ever, I found myself at a particular franchise of that Milwaukee open 24 hour institution—and I know they're beloved by some, but if I was going to write a review of George Webb it would be titled, “Two Clocks, Both of Them Wrong.” Have you been to one lately? They're not cheap; there's no excuse for the food not being better. I have to say, this neighborhood corner, adjacent to a beer store and a large church, has got to be much happier now. Out the window the sun still wasn't over the short buildings to the east. A regular stopped by for something take-out, and then a couple came in for breakfast. I had huevos a la Mexicana, my latest favorite breakfast, and though this wasn't the best version I've encountered, the little, stainless, four condiment Lazy Susan would cheer anyone up, with three varieties of salsa and pickled vegetables. Was this the quickest ever between “look for a place to eat” and “finishing my food?” I wrote in my notebook for about an hour—was unable to eat all of the food (it was a lot). Then I was on my way again, on foot, heading west, until the sidewalk ended, and I had to walk on grass in a park, which wasn't bad, as the ground was frozen, but not exactly where I thought I'd find myself on this morning. It occurred to me that a park is like a visit to another planet—but then it's not a stretch for me to see automobiles as hostile robotic aliens. Relieved to be able to conceal myself in the branches of a large pine tree, which I call God's public restroom, I relieved myself and reflected on my good fortune.
I went by here for years without going in, it's on this busy corner of Lincoln and Chase, near the Basilica—I guess I wondered about it for awhile—it seemed like a place that was always there, but often not open. It's got the weirdest hours—as far as I can tell, only open on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday—at 4 or 5 AM! Their specialty is carnitas, naturally— and I'm guessing they make a fixed amount each weekend—slow cooked pork—and serve it until it runs out. I think there might be more takeout business than anything. But it's a nice room, a really comfortable, warm dining area with long tables and booths. Even though they're open early, it's not really a breakfast place, unless you eat tacos for breakfast—which I do, at home and out, several times a week. I first visited here maybe a couple of years ago, when I was first looking for an angle to write about tacos and/or Mexican food, and I had an odd experience, in that, while my tacos were delicious, the corn tortillas really seemed more like flour tortillas, and since I am gluten intolerant, I worried the rest of the day I would be sick. I wasn't, but I felt really frustrated in that I wasn't able to speak Spanish and communicate better, and just the frustration with my health and diet made me re-think the whole writing about food thing. So... major crisis! But I knew I'd have to return someday and investigate, and when I woke from ridiculous, absurd nightmares on this Sunday morning, with the wind chill below zero, I thought, this would be a good morning to check out Don Lucho again! I got there early enough before it was too crowded and immediately asked the waitress about the tortillas. She told me they were corn, but they used a little flour in them, but it was gluten-free flour. So that explains their smooth texture and elasticity. I had a carnitas taco and a barbacoa lamb taco, both with onions and cilantro. These are big tacos! You might only want one. There were chips on the table, and pickled jalapenos, and a red and a green salsa that were complex and really good. I also got horchata that was really flavorful—a little sweet, of course, but the flavor! So I just ended up feeling really happy, and kind of vindicated—even though no one did anything wrong, last time, except maybe me not communicating more. One thing I have to say is, I'm not crazy about the tortilla that mimics a flour tortilla—it's just a mental thing—like why I'm sure some vegans are grossed out by fake meat. It kind of freaks me out. Nothing against the tortilla—in fact I think everyone I know would love these tortillas. But do other people include flour in their corn tortillas? Oh, the tortilla! Such a simple thing, and yet so complex—I don't think one can make an objective assessment, tortilla-wise—I think it's a personal thing. Simple food, yes, but anything but simple. But finally, for me, it's always going to be, first, about the feeling of a place, the uniqueness of a place, even before the first bite—that's my approach—and this Carnitas Don Lucho is right up there with places that make Milwaukee Milwaukee.
The day got ahead of me—no doubt because it was four days before the full moon, and I had a nightmare about train travel and toilet misadventures—so by the time I walked over here with breakfast in mind, it was lunchtime. But I still ordered breakfast, my latest favorite, Huevos a la Mexicana, and this was a good version, lots of red and green to match the Christmasy decorated interior, which actually really nicely complements the light blue and pink, and the classic artist painted wall murals, and the interior tiled roof décor. All Spanish language music I didn't know, which is ideal. I then realized I'd been here before, a few years ago—maybe on a night when Happy Chicken (at that time my favorite) was closed—it was a few blocks away, on Greenfield. I seem to recall the interior here was in kind of a transition, or appeared to be, maybe from the corner bar it was no doubt originally? Now it's a spacious place—you could fit twice as many tables in if you wanted to—or clear them all away and have a big old dance. There are a few things I don't understand: 1. Spanish; 1A. My inability to learn, when I was younger (not just a second language, but also a first, and how things, in general, connected); 1B. People acting like it was okay (did I get by with some kind of sterling personalty, or what?) 1C. (Though, since Google has turned permanently into online Lotería, which I play obsessively, maybe I will at least learn some Spanish words, such as pierdes; 2. This place feels kind of like a chain restaurant, but also it doesn't—and I mean both in a good way. But I wonder who owns it, and what they're like. 3. Why people will wait an hour or more in airless brunch-yuppie coffins to sit in uncomfortable chairs in a place with bad acoustics for frankly not very good food, while there are LOTS of places this good, nearly empty. I can answer the last one: If you drink vodka in overpriced brunch drinks on Sunday morning, you're being social. If you drink the same thing at home, alone, you're an alcoholic. I may be wrong about one thing... maybe there are not lots of places this good open for breakfast on Sunday morning, since about half of Milwaukee shuts down on Sunday, and quite a few places are not open for breakfast, AND... this one was really pretty good... it's still resonating on the delicious meter. Also, no, I did not have a sterling personality.
I met Renée for breakfast at the Landmark Family Restaurant on a Sunday, thinking it would be a good time to write a rice pudding review (which they have occasionally). This place has been around awhile, in St. Francis, and has a small, cute dining counter. No rice pudding, so I asked for tapioca, but again no. They had banana pudding, which is fine, but one has to draw the line somewhere. Then I noticed “Mexican Skillet” on the menu, so I figured I'd exercise my expansiveness in that direction, even though, I have to say, I'm a little chorizo'd out lately. It was very good, though, a fine breakfast, worth returning for, and writing home about—if this (“Taco: The Episodic Adventure”) is home. The food was, I suppose, overshadowed by my company, and our conversation about language, sign language, signs, and symbols. The Packers game was about to start, so you know how most people there were dressed, but I was wearing a Ralph Lauren T-shirt, even though it made me look fat, perhaps subconsciously in order to perversely sport a polo pony on game day. Our waiter also stood out somewhat aggressively in a Tom Brady jersey. Even though I despise the Patriots, I had to admire his courage. Renée was nearly hidden in an elaborate Black Sabbath Christmas sweater, covered with mistletoe, pentagrams, and flying Satanic creatures, like reindeer. If your office had Christmas sweater day, it would go over well; even in the stuffiest work setting, Satan is going to be more warmly accepted, in Wisconsin, anyway, than Tom Brady. Then I remembered that I'd found this little black and silver pin at the bus stop, on my way over, which had some kind of bird-like creature on it, and the letters: “LFC.” I didn't want to flash it around, fearing it might be some kind of white supremacist thing—I mean, it would look pretty at home on an SS uniform. I figured there was little chance it was “Louisiana Fried Chicken.” That bird was no chicken. Renée figured it might be a Griffin, or Griffon (or Gryphon), and that can be a can of worms. So finally, when I got home, I looked it up, and it turns out it's a Liver Bird (funny, because I almost ordered liver and onions), the symbol of Liverpool (England), and the pin was for: Liverpool Football Club. (If you lost this pin, DM me, and I'll gladly return it!) That was a relief, but still, it would have been inappropriate, on that day, for me to wear it, because I believe Black Sabbath are from Birmingham (England)—though I guess had we stopped in at the Highbury Pub on our way back, the sweater and pin could have been conversation pieces. Anyway, I promise, next week, I'll focus more on food! Oh, one last thing—this struck me as funny. Renée and I first met over the subject of my late friend, Keith Busch, and whenever I hear or read something about the mythical creature, the Griffin, I remember this time when Keith somehow came into contact with this small dog that had a really strange face, and he went into a panic, claiming that it was no dog—but actually a Griffin! That was his sense of humor, and I still laugh about it.
Not remotely a Mexican restaurant, but I'm still going with the wide swath—so I met Doug over here for brunch on Sunday morning—Brewer's Hill, at the top of the steps from the “Beerline” housing complex on the river. It's impossible to know what places will be full of brunch-yuppies—where is the hot place to go so you can be assured of having a 45 minute wait to get over your hangover before getting on with the pre-Packers day-drinking? This place qualifies, and it's fairly small—I don't know what was here before, likely a corner bar. It's a place where sidewalk dining actually makes sense, because it's not a busy car street, and there's a view of Milwaukee, and a view of View MKE, the restaurant across the street that was formerly Wolf Peach (not sure if there's restaurant incest going on up here on the hill). We got a small table in a corner, which helped me deal with the noise and chaos, and as much as I can do without music (other than the musical din of loud people), playing the whole Exile on Main St. record struck me as pleasing and unusual (and also not the kind of people-pleasing attempt at dining music that ends up pleasing no one). Also smart, is there's an adjoining lifestyle store, Orange and Blue Co. (it's “curated,” which means a human, not a bot, decides what's in the store) so you can look at and even smell enticing gift-y things while you wait (as opposed to trying to set the world record for shoving hungover 20-somethings in a phone-booth, like most brunch places). Besides a burrito, there was one more Mexican themed, and also gluten-free, menu item, thus my choice: “Pulled Pork Tostada.” Comforting and tasty, for sure, but the tostada, to me, (as a concept) is about as exciting as a rerun of MASH. As an experiment, I just made one, at home, with death's-door leftovers in the time it took me to think of something as boring as MASH. Tacos, as simple as they are, are difficult—you need to put the tortilla first, like a marriage you want to survive. With tostadas, the tortillas are treated like sex offenders. Also, sure I have had delicious black beans, but never when they're part of white people recipes where they may as well be impersonating dirt. I don't hate them; I just like all other beans better. And the over-easy egg—for having a menu with the biggest font-ed thing: “Put an egg on it”—you'd think somebody'd know how to cook an over easy egg (which is anything but easy, if you want the whites not runny but the bottom not leather). Also, one egg is like egg as an idea—it's barely food. I know it's more visually appealing, but are we here to Instagram or to eat? Two eggs make more sense, and then only if they're big and cooked right. I assume at a place like this the eggs come from chickens who are treated slightly better than office workers (they have heath insurance and get to leave the cubical occasionally). I'm being overly critical—really just happy to have a gluten-free, Mexican (if slightly) themed breakfast option that was yummy and didn't put me in a food-coma. Also, all the people working here made me feel like a loved human being, and finally, serving coffee in mismatched, not overly gigantic mugs is inspired. The server kept coming by and refilling them, and the coffee was better than any I've had lately at all these so-called hot-shit coffee shops that have, you know, more or less stomped out diners like they were cockroaches and replaced them with shit-pastries, bad acoustics, and ass-tasting coffee. Sorry, that's a tangent. Uncle Wolfie, you're first rate, in spite of that little bit creepy name!
I may have found my favorite Mexican restaurant in Milwaukee, which reminds me of why I started this project. And I could be done with it, and leave it at that, except, you know, when you find one four leaf clover among thrift-store Mitch Miller LP Hell, suddenly you're looking in X-mas album covers for the rare jazz record accidentally stuck in there. So I go on. But with a singing heart—after breakfast of Huevos a la Mexicana here, those pickled vegetables on the side, warm corn tortillas. I'm a morning person, so I'm always going to give extra points to the places open early, and the hours here are great, 7AM 'til late, seven days a week—and that includes Sunday! I found this place with the internet, asking for Mexican food “open now”—early one morning, and as I walked over I was thinking, internet must be wrong, because this is strictly a residential neighborhood (perhaps technically called Walker Square?), nothing for blocks but houses and churches. Kind of weirdly dead-center between National and Greenfield, and S. 6th and Cesar Chavez. Just an ocean of morning quiet. But then, there it was, like a man-made oasis. There's a dramatic old church kitty-corner, giving the odd impression you're in another country. Not overly friendly, that's just fine, because warm and welcoming is in spirit, and no bullshit. The décor is an art installation of decades of weathered murals upon murals, or gives that impression. I felt history, neighborhood, families, and regulars, no-nonsense. Maybe the best thing, though, was the smells. It might have just been me that particular morning, falling in love or something, but first there was the food, naturally, and my appetite through the roof. But then there was something else, maybe floral, maybe a waitress' perfume, but perhaps a cleaning product—I don't know—and I may never find it again. That happens. Will I spend another eternity chasing an ephemeral ghost? We'll see, probably. But it also gives me strength and hope to keep looking for next, and next—but that doesn't mean I won't be back here well before I try all there is to try.
This is a big, scary cafeteria (seats 420) that is part of the US Bank Building indoor complex, and seeing how it's a place that primarily serves office worker lunch, it should be both better and worse than it is. If that makes no sense, try eating lunch there every weekday for a year. The cafeteria is dark and dingy, in an understandable effort to not feel like the fluorescent nightmare cafeterias of the past—but what it makes me think of is a post-industrial factory where droid eyeballs or iPhone home buttons are manufactured. The place actually has a staggering variety of food, and if I didn't have a gluten-free diet, I could eat something different each day of the month. As it is, though, I'm severely limited, but the La Estacion taco/nacho station is always an option. I may (or may not) discuss the tacos later, but for now I'm focusing on the nachos, as I recently ate nachos for lunch on both National Nachos Day (November 6) and International Day of the Nacho (October 21). They give you a big old tub of tortilla chips, potentially covered with pretty much everything you'd expect, including a choice of meat, and rice and beans. Way too much food, but that didn't stop me from eating it all. The pulled pork is really pretty good. I guess it would be more aesthetically pleasing to get fewer ingredients, but since it's a fixed price, regardless, cheapies like me can't resist just opting for everything, until you essentially have a pail of garbage. If you manage to eat that all at once, sitting among uninterrupted sight-lines of 400 gobbling office workers, you might feel like you're being fattened as next month's meat-source. The ideal thing is to take the nachos back to your desk and allow them to define your afternoon, which they will do very well, not to mention your evening, and depending on your individual plumbing, the next morning. It would be nice if they were in some kind of cardboard container, leaking out, I guess, but with a chance of biodegrading, but as it is, they're served in a plastic shell that is so substantial you could probably have these nachos buried with you. I cannot feel good about myself buying this plastic container. Some people do it every day of the week. I mean, this thing is so heavy-duty, you could save them for a month, screw them to the side of a wooden door, seal the edges, and you'd have yourself a very functional raft. Maybe that's the idea. Is everybody building rafts?
There was a fast food restaurant in my home town called “The Red Barn”—am I remembering this correctly?—maybe I should ask someone—it was built to look like a big old red barn, and I kind of despised it, because I knew it wasn't a real barn—like the old, seriously haunted barn in my neighborhood. Now, of course, that place (The Red Barn) would seem absolutely charming. Anyway, I'm thinking this was why I had just pretty much ignored the Mad Rooster—which is constructed to look like a big old red barn—until someone told me they had excellent breakfasts. Finally I ate there—and realized it's pretty much a family restaurant with a country theme, but locally owned (I think), and with infinitely better food than Cracker Barrel. On this, my return visit, I rode my bike out the Hank Aaron Trail, and then on a convoluted maze of back streets, to try to avoid the big roads (essentially like Interstate highways with legal U-turns) it's on the corner of. Fortunately I went early, got a booth to myself (it's one of those places where there is never a person dining alone), and by the time I left, people were lined up around the silo. It's a big menu, and they do have gluten-free pancakes. This is not at all a Mexican restaurant, but they do have some Mexican breakfast options on the menu, including Huevos Rancheros—which I always find amusing for some reason—and I kind of want to start an entire separate project that's just about Huevos Rancheros—but I'll save that for another day. I had “Mad Morning Tacos”—three tacos in one of those metal taco holders—necessary, because they're totally overloaded with chorizo, scrambled eggs, tomatoes, peppers, onions, and avocado. Potatoes on the side. They get major points for using corn tortillas, but then lose those points because the tortillas were not good—weirdly like all different—one was too gummy, the next one was dry and unheated, and the third was like heated too much, in oil, and partially hard. This was strange in itself, and I'm thinking just an anomaly, so I'll go back sometime—when I know I want to eat a lot. You can't eat these tacos like tacos, you just have to be resigned to eating them with a fork. That strikes me as a potentially eminently useful and perhaps even killer metaphor—but I have no idea, at this point, for what.
I passed by the Pineapple Cafe & Mexican Grill for years, usually in a car with other people, but still, probably not seeing much promise, thinking it was a bar, or being put off by its entrenchment in a dingy old-school shopping plaza. Of course, given its name, I should have guessed it would be an oasis of delicious contradiction. Their cute website has a drawing of a clock with its hands at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, a good sign—and one glance inside was all I needed. It looks like the combination of an aged swinger's 1950s suburban basement rec-room and a perfectly preserved Vegas-style classic family restaurant, with the lights, music, and TVs on low, and no yuppie brunch madness. Pineapple imagery is everywhere. I can't even begin to get into the complexity and breakneck U-turns involved in the pineapple's symbolic heavy lifting. Another time. I rode my bike down there in October and had a “Spicy Mexican Skillet” (eggs, chicken chorizo, poblano peppers, onion, jalapenos, cilantro, avocado, and cheese), satisfying the Mexican side of the requirement, but then returned a week later for some gluten-free pancakes with pineapple and whipped cream. It's not likely I'll tolerate the multi-bus excursion down here in the winter, and Howell Avenue, south of the airport, is not a road you want to find yourself walking on without a tragic story in your briefcase. This would be my new hangout, seriously, but for location and winter. Even my last trip by bike, against high winds, took nearly 2 hours. My feet were frozen, but I realized the raised booth—like you're on a little stage—was ideal for secretly taking your shoes off. Women in the booth next to me were having an actually interesting conversion. I removed my sweat soaked sweater, drank the pretty good coffee, and wrote in my notebook. A day-glow green card that said “Theresa” was placed on my table, but my young waiter looked like a Latino, cute-era Tony Curtis. The layout (a lot of booths; big tables for large groups) is such that it makes sense for the rare solitary diner to get a booth, even if he's a weirdo writing in a notebook. And writing what, exactly? Not Yelp horseshit. Unrequited love is my element, and so is the fantasy pre-Summer of Love airport proximity singles hi-rise, and discovering a new obsession, collecting all versions, and trying everything on the menu of my new world headquarters. At least in spirit. Oh, well—at this point in the year, another summer seems improbable at best, and so does love, but the Earth keeps spinning along, regardless of how much we try to stop it or hurry it.
I met Doug at the Fiesta Cafe on a rainy Sunday morning. We were both on our bikes, hoping for less rain after breakfast—rather than the more rain that happened. I tried to remember what had been in this 1st Street/Walker's Point location before—couldn't, but some kind of a tavern is a good bet. It's across from the only bus stop with deco stone benches, as it's the corner of Allen-Bradley. The place looks a bit dingy outside, which is fine with me, because inside, then, it's like Dorothy arriving in Oz, which is like my favorite transformation. There's even a pretty big wall replication of the Allen-Bradley clock, about which there is much lore. It took me awhile (a lot on the menu), but I ordered breakfast, “Huevos A La Mexicana,” a good choice on a cold, wet morning. Also, coffee. This place is bigger inside than you'd think, and busy with Sunday brunch, but there weren't SUV-loads of brunch-yuppies waiting, fortunately, and we felt comfortable sitting for a long, long time drinking coffee. It takes me forever just to finish a breakfast that big, and the servers and bussers were more attentive than a postwar mother-in-law. You won't see one of those angry Yelp reviews (about not being waited on) at this place. Or you probably will, because the people who write those critiques about being ignored are—or perceive themselves to be—ignored everywhere they go—because when you wear your attitude like a bad cologne, astute service workers can smell you from far down Cranky Guy Street. Anyway, this place was kind of a revelation, and it's in a good location for me, walking-wise, so I'm likely to return during deep vortex winter, and if I find something I like better on the menu, perhaps another chapter will be in order. Oh, and then we tried to wait out the rain at the nearby Cermak grocery—we were there for about two hours—I could have had a taco doubleheader that morning, had the breakfast at Fiesta Cafe not been such an astounding stomachful.
I was over at the Cudahy Library, my new favorite public library, on a Saturday—I love this library, it could be your new hangout. There's a really nice reading area with a lot of windows and light, though the fireplace wasn't going on this morning, and I was trying to warm up. I was on my bike—it wasn't that cold out, but I had underdressed by one sweater, not anticipating the chill from high humidity mixed with the 20 mph wind. I looked on my phone map for Mexican restaurants, and as luck would have it, there were two that were supposed to be open at 10AM, just across the street from each other, and a few blocks from the library. The one, Lala's Place, is in the old family restaurant location I used to frequent—I mean a lot—I have hours and hours of notebook journal writing in there. The thought of going there made me a little uncomfortable, kind of like dropping in unannounced on an old girlfriend and getting no smiles, just her husband with that “is there going to be trouble” look on his face. Their “Open” sign was dark, however, so I was temporarily off the hook—though perhaps a return is in my near future. The other place, though, Mexic 103, was bright and welcoming. I went in like I owned the place—it was empty but for a man and woman sitting at the bar—they did own the place, or worked there. Drama was still on my mind, but I had not previously dated either of them, and everything was cool. She said I was the first customer of the day, and they'd be glad to serve me lunch even though it was 10AM and I'd eaten breakfast just two hours earlier. The TV was silently cataloging Trump atrocities and Spanish language radio was playing lively music—I wished momentarily that I was that person who would dance, even though you're the only person in a room. I asked for “Tijuana Tacos”—steak, chorizo, pastor mixed together, cilantro and onions. The orange rice was shaped into a pyramid—I climbed it, I ate it—and the refried beans were sublime (I'm the person who might like refried beans more than anything). The tacos were on smaller tortillas, doubled up—really good. I destroyed this meal, as if breakfast had only been a hallucination. As I ate, I wrote in my pink notebook and looked around. The place is huge, with a big back room, and an outdoor patio fenced in, and a nice bar with lots and lots and lots of tequila. I imagine this place is happening in the evenings. I thought to ask what “Mexic 103” meant (I mean, the address is 3506, 2019 is the year, and 420 is weed, but 103?), but suddenly felt shy and didn't feel like asking. I figured I could look it up on the internet, later. I'll do that now. Internet tells me that Mexic 103 is “a Mexican restaurant in Cudahy.” I should have asked.
NEWS
Home Page—notice of recent additions to this website. Occasionally, a link to somewhere else.
MEMO
Currently, a kind of travelogue written by our roaming operative, Kenneth Oats. You can still find previous “blog” entries, by Randy Russell, by scrolling down, down, down…
MEDIA
Individual pages for select books, movies, and articles, with links to take you there. Ongoing, and more soon.
MEMORABILIA
For now, consisting of three separate pages. SOCK MONKEYS: Images of favorite fiber-art sculptures/children's toys, most commonly resembling monkeys and often fashioned from old socks. PHOTOS: A few, random photographs, most of which spent time on the main page of this website before being replaced by something new. COLLAGE: Images of collages, made with paper and glue. Most of which are small, for sale, dusty, able to be dusted.
MEMOIR
Memoir is often a fictional account of personal experience, passed off as autobiography, but here it's used as a heading for the chronological pages that are home to my ongoing project of typing and posting my personal journals, usually written by hand, in notebooks. STRAWBERRY ICE CREAM SODA starts way back in 1972 (as always, the oldest entries are at the bottom of the page, and newly recorded ones at the top)—progressing through childhood, adolescence, and up to heavy drinking proprietor of a punk record store (in which I get some help from my friends). NOW IT CAN BE TOLD takes up the story in 1982, when things get serious, and will proceed (ideally) until 1996 in which NOTEBOOK JOURNALS commences, and will run until 2016, when the journey is taken up by NO MEMORY. The intention is to record notebook entries from that year until January 19, 2020, and the beginning of the final page: SEX DIARY (Sexagenarian Diary) (That's a joke.) (And the next memoir page, projected for the decade of the 2030s, will be titled “Deviated Septuagenarian.”) (God willing.) Please note: this is an ongoing project which depends on me living long enough to type and post the multitudes of journal entries. Half the time, I can't read my own handwriting, and there's very little chance that anyone else would have the interest or patience to take it up after my death.
LUNCH
PIE — Currently this is the place for the extent of my dessert intake, specifically; Sparking Water (I am on a quest to try them ALL). (In Older Posts: Memories, drinking, drugs, holidays, family, the forbidden, pipe tobacco, doughnuts, cupcakes, macaroons, tapioca pudding, mung bean and coconut milk, ice cream, incense, croquembouche, cookies, candy, pie, Sahara, strudel, Jello, flan, cannoli, fank, custard, halva, schweddy balls, rice pudding, schaum torte, and more!)
TACO — Near perfect concepts, far-ranging ideas, everyday breakfasts, favorite foods, local destinations, ongoing adventures, tacos…
COFFEE — Cafe, coffeehouse, espresso bar, cat cafe, tearoom, coffee shop, on and on…
DINER — Family restaurant, cafe, greasy spoon, hash-house, lunch counter, blue plate, cafeteria, luncheonette, diners, etc.
LISTS
READING is a reading list of books that I’ve heard about, read about, that have been recommended to me, and/or books that I’ve found, borrowed, or bought that I want to investigate to determine if I want to read—now, or in the very near future. BOOKS is where I post what I’m now calling “Book Reports”—as they are more akin to book reports from grade school than actual “reviews.” VINYL Now posting all review of vinyl records here, as well as my long-running blog: DJ FARRAGINOUS. STEELY DAN is the page where I write about individual songs by the band, Steely Dan, who may not be my favorite band of all time, but are definitely my favorite band to write about. MOVIES is the page for writing about movies. Currently, I’m trying to find, watch, and write about all existing Ella Raines movies. SOAP EXOTICA is reviews and musings on Bar Soap (over 100 varieties and counting!)—often overly extensive, and admittedly, somewhat insane. LISTZ-O-MANIA! is the new page for random lists and rankings. Currently there’s the revised ranking of James Bond movies, my 100 all-time favorite pop albums, and an ongoing ranking of Daniel Clowes books!
PODCAST
This is the home page for “The Randy Russell Podcast” in which RR talks to a guest for an hour or so. Each episode might have a rough theme, but overall there is no real focus (except for, naturally, the guest, and RR). You can listen directly from this page, or download the podcasts from Apple Podcasts and the Stitcher app.
CONTACT
On this page there are BIOS of contributors to this website, as well as contact information. (Though, there is no guarantee the contact information is valid. If you want, or need, to send an email regarding any of the contributors here, or anything on this website, please write to this address: RandySRussell at Gmail dot com (addressed in, you know, email form. Sorry, no hyperlink here). Please make sure to spell the name RandySRussell correctly. If you don't include the middle initial “S”—or spell the last name with two S's and two L's, your email will not reach who it's intended for. It's rough. But also, if you'd like to correspond that old-fashioned way, with paper, stamp, and envelope, first send an email, and if you can convince me you're a person, and not a bill collector, I will trade addresses, and communication can happen not unlike it's 1999.
FINALLY
If you've read this far, Thank You for reading!
