The Boiling Kettle
Goinâ up North, mon
April, 1998by Cupric Rotondo
Having recently stumbled upon a short week of vacation time between jobs, the Alewife and I fantasized of our escape. The oppressive-if-balmy skies of this year's El Nio winter were weighing heavily on us both, so there was a short scramble via internet and plain ol' telephone, the upshot of which was that Jamaica was fully booked (on such short notice), and so, most likely was every other warm and sunny place in this hemisphere not presently undergoing a non-democratic change of governments.
And so, in a state of dizzy panic, we opted for Wisconsin instead. So we loaded our Swedish car with alpine necessities like jumper cables and Triscuits, and headed off.
Northern Wisconsin may seem like a poor substitute for a tropical paradise, and as a warm and sunny island destination, it does fall a couple of coconuts short. But on deeper reflection, one begins to find parallels. To begin with, there is the sense of isolation, of watching the whole crazy world fade away into insignificance. They are worlds unto themselves. The natives in both places speak a curious creole patois peppered with colorful phrases. Whether it's "ya mon" or "wojeez" both tongues speak of the mixing of blood and culture that makes the New World so vital.
Then there's the water sports activities. Never mind that most of the northern ones involve the life-giving liquid in its more annoying solid phase, the point is to get out and do it. You can sail around a sparkling lagoon, or loudly snowmobile yourself all over the county, the basic elements are just the same. Inside your heavily padded layers of wool and down, Cossack hat and two-ton boots, you're as toasty as any brown-skinned islander that ever was. Are snorkeling and ice fishing all that different, really? Both regions feature highly seasoned cuisines spotlighting the best and freshest local cuisine. Never mind that in Wisconsin that means large chunks of meat with fried potatoes, colorfully spiced up with a lot of lovely salt; it's the thought that counts.
So girded with these and other feeble rationalizations, we arrive. Our wintry paradise this trip is Saint Germain, Wisconsin, halfway between the resort towns of Eagle River and Minoqua. This being Superbowl week, we have our choice of motel rooms everywhere we go, but hold out for the charmingly-named Elbert's Lodge. There we negotiate with Elbert and his wife for the use of their last available vacancy, a five-bedroom palace with a fireplace and a Jacuzzi. Who says there's no warm water in Vilas county? He's holding out, but she breaks down; It's ours for ninety bucks a night. The main attraction of the place, in addition to the Musky Lounge, is the thrilling spectacle of half-tanked snowmobilers hurling themselves up and down specially constructed "ramps" to the lake that are in reality just deep ruts gouged in a shallow sand cliff. It is hours of fun.
Our mission is bars. Log bars. We start our quest by walking over to the Musky Lounge, and find it suitably rustic. Cozy, friendly, not too much in the way of exciting beer or real logs. The Leinenkugel's Northwoods is tasty, though. Taxidermy if just a feeble attempt, despite the name of the place. We give it two Heads.
Just down the road a piece is the overwhelming Whitetail Inn. This is a huge place build with 200-year old white pine timbers. Gigantic deer-antler chandeliers festoon the cathedral-like space. Beer selection is pretty good, with brews from Wisconsin brewing and several other in-state micros. Taxidermy is world-class, with odd animals in threatening poses and everything. We give it five Heads, even if it does come across as awfully nouveau. In a hundred years, this will be a great place. Next stop is the Golden Pines. This Germanic eatery features a Deutsch menu that is daringly ethnic by local standards. Fresh Pschorr-Brau is the beer attraction. This rates a 4 on the 1-5 log scale. We run into our innkeeper, Elbert, escaping from his own establishment, and he buys our discretion with a round of beers. Shockingly, there is not so much as a fin or feather of a stuffed animal, and the carved wooden fish only mock their absence.
Just a short crawl away is an ultra-cute log bar called Sisters. Built in 1929, and run until recently as the Peacock, this is the ultimate Northwoods bar. Dripping with gemtlicheit funk, its time-burnished log interior glows like gold. We encounter two locals, a sparkling-eyed gentleman in his mid seventies, and a younger protegé, the kind of guy that looks like he really had a great time during the sixties. They regale us with jokes and verbally spar with the bartender, one of the two women who own the place. No taxidermy save an odd walleye or two, but you almost don't need it here. 5 Logs! We eat across the street at the curiously-named MacGregor's Blink Bonnie, a fine Wisconsin Supper club, where we enjoy large portions of rare steer flesh, and wash it down with a beer so boring I can't remember what it was. Salads are mountains of iceberg lettuce crowned with a summit of Bacos, a combination that for some inexplicable reason actually tastes good.
By about five the next day we are up and dressed and raring to go. We head up to Boulder Junction, The Musky Capitol of the World, and hit a couple more spots. This is the home of the Boulder Beer Bar, a biker-looking bar with a couple hundred bottled brews. The list is well-chosen, and we wonder how they manage to acquire such a range up here in the chilly North. No taxidermy, and not much in the way of logs, either. We press on. On the other side of townâ is the Headwaters, a place that by the look of the art deco bar, was built in the thirties or forties. It has the nicest stone fireplace we've seen yet, and plenty of logs. Friendly and comfortable, the beer selection is so-so, and we drink Leinie's again. The bartenders are trying to give away a bucketload of "designated driver" keychains and other bric-a-brac, but he's finding few takers.
Then its off to find another old historical place, the Buckhorn Lodge. After turning around twice down a dead end road, we finally persevere and find this deeply funky joint at the very end. The joke is that this is a no-alcohol bar, and consequently deserted on this particular Friday night. We chat with the owner and rehydrate with soda while admiring their collection of deteriorating antique moth specimens nailed to the backbar wall. The owners, refugees from down South in Chicago are trying to wind down their working lives with this very low-key lodge. Just a couple of cabins and a lot of peace and quiet.
We get out the book and map out a likely supper club. It's the Norwood Pines, just outside Woodruff. Built, burned down, and rebuilt all before 1935, this one's a classic. Family-owned, they feature an odd appetizer called "pine cones," which are really deep-fried mashed potato balls in the shape of, well, you get the idea. As disgusting as the concept sounds, we go ahead and order a pile of them, and are delighted to find them supremely delicate, crisp and well fried on the outside, the crust breaking away to reveal a creamy truffly middle. There is good beer there, too, a nut brown ale from the South Shore Brewery, from nearby Ashland, I believe. It is luscious and creamy, easily the best beer we encountered on the trip. The taxidermy is all wooden, but this family-owned place has tons of other charms.
There is a German word you usually see only in restaurant ads: Gemtlicheit. The literal translation is "coziness," but it refers to a special sense of conviviality one finds in such places. You can find it anywhere, from a chili parlor in Cincinnati to a pub in London, but sometimes you stumble on a whole region, such as Bavaria, that makes it a point of pride. It is no coincidence that gemtlicheit nearly always involves drinking beer. It is one of those sociochemical rituals of civilization that keeps the chill away, and allows us to live in close proximity to our fellow humans without ripping their heads off.
Wisconsin, from Milwaukee to Superior, is an intensely gemtlicheit state, blessed with an abundance of snug, friendly little joints carrying on a tradition of Barbarian origin that must be several thousand years old by now. For proof of this, one need only cross the border into Michigan, where a combination of settlement history - Calvinist and Dutch Reformed rather than beer-drinking Catholics - and liquor laws have conspired to make taverns places of sin, dreary and shameful, rather that the warm, welcoming shelters from the world they rightly should be.
