2003-08 Vital Source Mag – August 2003
"I know what I want to do for the rest of my life."
By John Hughes What do the Pfister, the Milwaukee Athletic Club, Comet and Fuel Cafes, the Hi-Hat, Sanford’s, Trocedaro, St. Bessie’s, The Social, Sol Fire, Sendik’s and the 300 Club at Miller Park all have in common? You might guess, with a group as wide-ranging as that — nothing. But the answer is Wild Flour Bakery, which bakes wholesale for all of the above. Because of that, they all have Greg and Dolly Mertens, the owners of Wild Flour, in common. You might say Greg and Dolly are the leaven in Milwaukee’s yeast. So much the better for us. During a recent visit to the couple’s beautiful, Mayor’s Design Award-winning bakery on 28th and Lincoln, Dolly shows me with beaming pride the stripped original woodwork in the 80 year old shop, the original laminated bread cases, the original tile floor. She shows me the new, hand-built brick oven, which turns 600 pounds of dough into delectables on slow days, 850 pounds on busy ones. She informs me that there are two other bakeries under the Wild Flour name; one in New Berlin, and one baking pastries and croissants at Grand Avenue Mall. She takes me on a tour of her sparkling kitchen, bustling with hard-working Latinos from the neighborhood, and speaks with strength, conviction, and enthusiasm, her brown eyes bright. “Ten years ago I bought a loaf of bread,” she says. “And when I bit into it, I said to my husband, ‘I know what I want to do for the rest of my life.’ He said, ‘what is that?’ I said, ‘be a baker.’ He just said, ‘I’ll support you.’ He’s a honey.” She smiles with megawatt authenticity and leads me back to the front of the store, where employee Rosa is sweeping with vigor and cheer. “I was the 13th of my parents’ 14 kids,” she continues. “And I was raised on a farm in central Wisconsin. I spent a lot of time in the kitchen with my mother. I became an expert dishwasher, I’m great at that. And I learned from my mother the art of sharing. I learned that bread is not so much to feed your belly, but your soul. I learned that when you bake for others, you are sharing not so much food but yourself. And we heal one another through food. So, now I’m doing that, and I love what I do.” Greg is, as Dolly reports, a honey, with an easy smile, gentle voice and approachable spirit. He was one of eight children, but his father died when Greg was 11, and he watched his mother raise the children by herself. He informs me that he decided to marry Dolly when he was 14 and she 13, during the 1950s in rural Wisconsin. The wedding had to wait several years, but they’ve now been married for over three decades. These are people who know the value of hard work and community, pulling together with other “good, honest people” to make something […]
Aug 1st, 2003 by Vital Archives
Dark horse running
By Greg Sampson The end of June was all about Howard Dean. On Sunday, June 22, Dean appeared on Meet the Press, where Tim Russert attacked just about everything about him, from his stance on the war in Iraq to his health care policies to his “evolved” position on the death penalty. The following day he was back in Burlington, Vermont to officially declare his candidacy for the Presidency. The tone of his speech was visionary and thoughtful, surprisingly devoid of much of the confrontational rhetoric for which he had made a name for himself in the previous months. Finally, by the end of the week the Dean campaign announced that it had raised $7.5 million in the second quarter, the most by any candidate, the lion’s share coming through donations on the campaign Web site. Suddenly the press was talking about Dean, turning him overnight from a long shot, dark horse candidate to an insurgent contender who was pushing significant political issues and forcing his competitors to pay attention. Politics at its’ most unpredictable. It was politics at its’ most unpredictable. Beyond the money the campaign raised, there was real energy surrounding Dean himself. While many of his vocal supporters were liberal Democratic activists angry about tax cuts, the pre-emptive war in Iraq, and the Bush administration generally, much of Dean’s buzz was fueled by unaffiliated citizens. They are attracted to him in part because he represented a departure from the detached, politics-as-usual formula that has come to represent national campaigns in the past quarter century. In Dean they see a candidate unafraid to not only go after the policies of the Bush administration, but also the inability of Democrats to challenge those policies or come up with a competing vision of how government should work. Young, white and wired: profile of a Deanophile. One of the most compelling characteristics of the Dean campaign has less to do with the candidate himself than with who is watching him. Dean has been successful at courting the unaffiliated, many of them young and on the Internet. They represent a class of people with financial power and an established (not to mention expansive) community base; a heretofore largely untapped “market” for politicians. In the past, they’ve not been big voters. That may be changing. These people go online and talk about Dean. Through mailing lists, weblogs, or via community Web sites, people are contributing to a discussion about Dean, and to grassroots, Web-based activism. In Dean’s case, this has proven significantly more effective than traditional marketing and campaigning techniques for getting his word out. I have to confess, I fit the profile of a Dean supporter almost to a tee. My professional and personal life is tied to the Web. I care about politics in this country, but feel disenfranchised by the detached, insular behavior common amongst politicians, who court special interests and narrow constituencies at the expense of the will of the society they ostensibly serve. I am more likely to […]
Aug 1st, 2003 by Vital Archives
Morsels
By Cynthia Vasques It has always amazed me that human beings can consume just about anything that crawls or oozes out of the earth. Who was that first prehistoric homo sapiens who picked up a disgusting snail and said to himself, “Mmmm, yummy- looking?” Or perhaps it was a Cro-Magnon future Frenchman who said the equivalent of “Zoot alors, I’ll eat ‘zis thing!” I had always felt somewhat ill at ease when faced with eating something whose legs were arranged on the plate and whose eyes were staring blankly upward, so I therefore had never experienced the exquisite crunch of soft shell crabs sautéed to perfection until our family moved to Milwaukee, where I became completely obsessive about these seasonal tidbits. My husband, the inveterate fly fisherman, has always been able to eat anything that swims including sea urchin, so I really had never counted on liking soft shells even though he had often tried to foist them upon me. So, it was a great shock to find myself ordering them for the first time at River Lane Inn, a long-established scion of seafood located in Brown Deer. Fran, the effervescent hostess who we have now spent seven years getting to know and adore, encouraged the choice that started my ensuing obsession. Since that first taste of crunchy, delicate shell releasing a burst of juicy flavor, I cannot get enough of these crabby little morsels. We have ordered them several different ways from creative chef JoLinda Klopp of River Lane Inn this season. In four recent visits she featured them Cajun-style, which packed a real wallop! Everyone at the table was wowed by them, but I felt the preparation over-powered their delicate flavor so I opted to have them sautéed them in a lemon beurre-blanc, a more classic way and my particular favorite. We have always counted on both of Jim Marx’ marvelous restaurants for our yearly fix of soft shells, and recently chef Thomas Peschong of Riversite in Mequon obliged us withhis unique talents, presenting us with impeccable soft shells. Thomas has been creating exceptional seafood dishes using only the finest ingredients for nearly 13 years at Riversite, and shows no signs of depleting his treasure chest of ideas. He and owner Jim Marx are responsible for some Milwaukee’s most creative pairings of exotic tastes in food and wine, and host frequent wine-tasting dinners. Next season we will be back in hot pursuit of the succulent softshells and other flavors to pass on to you. This recipe is one of Thomas Peshong’s simple favorites to try with your own frying pan! “Maryland” softshell crabs 6 live jumbo softshell crabs 1/2 cup seasoned flour* Peanut oil or olive oil for frying 1 shallot, peeled and diced 3 Tbsp. lemon juice 3 Tbsp. capers (nonpariels) 3 Tbsp. dry white wine 4 oz. (1 stick) salted butter, chilled and cut into patties salt & pepper Clean the crabs by snipping off the eyes, lifting the back flaps over the bodies and removing […]
Aug 1st, 2003 by Vital Archives
Slicker than a snake on ice.
By Bill Wandschneider I think the first American flag was perfect. You know, the one with a snake on it. And the reason, to me, is that we seem to love the con artist. Our CEOs are often in the news for doing something delightfully sleazy. We live in a country rich in unsavory history. Snake oil salesmen, carpetbaggers, swamp land scams, gold mine speculation and stock market manipulation. I think con artists are at least as entertaining as anything on TV. They used to be called flim flam men. I spent the fourth of July with a band of them. They didn’t really break any laws, they just sold a bunch of junk. Things like silly string, blow up Sponge Bobs, beads and other trinkets of no real monetary value. And in observing their success, I’d say it seems we love to celebrate our freedom by giving money to con men. The greatest show on earth. I ran into them while walking past a park on the third of July. I decided to see if they’d hire me. I asked the guy who seemed to be in charge if they were taking anyone on. He said “yes.” I asked if they were carnival people. “No,” he replied, “we have all of our teeth and we aren’t running from the law.” Then he asked if I had a social security number and some ID. When I told him I did, he hired me on the spot. That’s when the show started for me. It was fascinating. The more I learned about these guys and their lifestyle, the more interesting things got. They have a culture of their own, including their own vernacular. It’s part Cajun, part Ebonics, part broken English and a smattering of Spanish patois. Their norms are a bit wild, but perhaps more of a mirror on the “straight” world than we’d like to acknowledge. Stealing from each other is acceptable and expected. Their worth or status amongst their peers is rooted in their ability to skillfully lie to, con and manipulate unsuspecting consumers. In other words, the best hustler has the most status. They almost never wear shirts. They flirt with every woman they see. They’re drunk almost all of the time. Nights in jail and fist fighting are just part of their routine. Not having a permanent residence doesn’t seem to bother them at all. They’re about as scrappy as could be, and seem to have an unshakable confidence. The operator and the Quickness. A hustler’s job exists in two parts: decorating the booth with items to sell, and actually selling the items. The first is called “flashing your booth.” Flashing is hard to do. It’s a real skill. The second part of the job is the selling. That’s where these people are amazing. They mix with ease equal parts psychology, pressure and indifference. In a different world, where only skills mattered, operators would make powerful floor traders. I watched one of them in action. A […]
Aug 1st, 2003 by Vital Archives
Michael Seidel’s Neon Golden journey of out time
By Michael Seidel It was Gothenburg. Truly it was, but whenever arrows of time are lobbed at the dartboard of that day, my mind gets tyrannical, wiping out the reality of place. It could have been anywhere: Anywhere International Airport. That’s it. Or at least we’ll pretend it is. It started like this: an ultra-modern, passenger-choked shuttle bus slid out of the city. Along the featureless outlying countryside, dusk was raining down, incrementally blacking out depth of field until the landscape was reduced to my own face staring back at me. I dug the Discman out of my side bag, sifted through my volumes of MP3s and eventually settled on the bleepy, lush electronic sounds of The Notwist’s Neon Golden. I’d heard the record before. Months earlier, I was doing a stint of couch surfing and a generous friend offered his room to me while he was away from home for several months. Along with his room came his CD collection, which was massive, and teeming with records I’d never heard before. Everyday was an odyssey of discovery, and it was wonderful. Neon Golden had gotten a few spins and I thought it was great, but its significance hadn’t yet surfaced. That would happen at Anywhere International Airport. We trudged deeper into what can only be described as “the boonies.” Seemingly out of nowhere, landing lights seared through the dark empty space outside. The shuttle came to a halt, we gathered our things and got off. The hour was a hellish hullabaloo of passports being rifled for, suitcases being dropped onto scales, sundry tongues clashing and competing. For me, all of that was muted to nothing more than tangible action. Sure, I caught snippets in the segues between tracks, but for the most part, it was all over-arched by Neon Golden. So in that way, on that night, that record became my anthem of transition. For me it somehow sonically exemplified the feeling and experience of transitory life. Over the next few months, I’d listen to it in narrow, pot-holed back alleys; on coaches with faltering suspension systems; on turbulence-plagued budget planes; sprawled out on the mite infested sheets of hostel beds, listless and longing. It gave form to the uncontrollable tremble of vague expectation. It was my empathetic conspirator in homelessness and motion. In the course of all this moving about, the surface of the CD got dinged so severely that it’s now unplayable. Though I have heard it a few times since I returned to my sedentary domestic life, I have not made the effort to obtain a new copy of my own. I still feel that it’s one of the greatest records I’ve ever heard — it’s just that it now feels out of context: its significance is trapped in my past, when life felt indistinct, boundless and new.
Aug 1st, 2003 by Vital Archives
public art or urban eyesore?
By Raymond Johnson One of the happiest developments in recent years is the explosion of sidewalk seating at restaurants and cafés in Milwaukee. It signals a renewed commitment to public life, or at least as close as we are able to achieve it in an age in which we are always and everywhere shopping. It seems nearly every establishment that is able has put a few tables out, even the Famous Cigar Shop on Brady St., so that smokers can enjoy their purchases immediately. Brady, perhaps the city’s most public street, has been literally transformed in recent years by the number of establishments with sidewalk seating. All this sidewalk seating, however, is not without drawbacks. The placement of private seating on sidewalks in part co-opts the public realm. Restaurants and cafés with seating on the sidewalk are making money in this public space. Such taking demands something be given back, a responsibility too few uphold. With great seating comes great responsibility. First and foremost amongst these is a requirement to keep the sidewalk passable. Legally, sidewalk seating may not encroach upon a wheelchair user, whose right to sidewalk use is unquestioned. Additionally, seating should allow for the passage of two people shoulder to shoulder holding hands. This distance, four to five feet, is about the width of a residential sidewalk. Couples shouldn’t have to break handholding to bypass outdoor grazers. That on too many of Milwaukee’s commercial streets (Kinnickinnic Av., Center St., Water St.) this would be nearly impossible, signals dysfunctional urban design. Recent violators have included Rock Bottom Brewery on the Riverwalk and Hooligan’s on North Ave. Rock Bottom has been the most serious offendor. In the past, it has placed tables along the narrow right of way east of the restaurant’s parking lot, although this practice seems to have stopped. Rock Bottom still packs its tables onto their main Riverwalk space, blurring the public passage and making those strolling by feeling as if they are walking through a dining room rather than on a sidewalk. Hooligan’s infringements have been less premeditated. Some days there is plenty of space, others not enough even for wheelchair users. Of course it is not only the establishments that are responsible for maintaining the public way. All of us who enjoy outdoor seating must remain cognizant of the amount of space we leave to passersby. This is simply a requirement of living in and using a dense urban environment. The other primary responsibility placed upon establishments utilizing sidewalk seating is aesthetic. Many establishments treat this public responsibility callously. They have simply gone to the local hardware store and purchased the ubiquitous plastic chairs and tables found on every backyard deck from New Berlin to Menomonee Falls. They are fine for that use, but inappropriate for urban sidewalks. There are too many of these places to mention them all. Sidewalk seating as public art. Others are trying harder. Hartter’s Bakery on Prospect Ave., and Cempazuchi’s and on Brady St. feature colored translucent resin slat […]
Aug 1st, 2003 by Vital Archives
Riverwest Rising
It’s hard to say where it started. The first “event” could be marked as the racist rally downtown last November. Add to it an undercurrent of widespread frustration stemming from innumerable social ills: a dismal economy; a confusing, seemingly interminable “war on terrorism”; continually decreasing funds for education; a less than successful attempt at welfare reform; long term high unemployment, with hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, of Americans having exhausted both benefits and their savings. The list, as they say, goes on and on. In the Riverwest neighborhood, where Vital Source has its offices (as well as sister businesses Bremen Café and The Guardian), signs of unrest have been building over recent months. We’ve come a long way since the early 90s, with areas along Center, Locust and Clarke, as well as pockets throughout the area, blossoming with successful businesses, due in large part to the dedication of early pioneers like Fuel Café and Linneman’s. Home owner occupation is at decades-high levels; property values have (legitimately) increased. Children of all races play along the sidewalks as hipsters, artists and working class Joes walk the streets. Yes, there is crime here. Car break-ins are frequent, as are incidents of burglary and vandalism. But in ever increasing numbers, to the credit of those who won’t be driven “west”, or even east, Riverwesterners are doing what’s required to take Riverwest back from the brink of becoming another urban wasteland statistic. The gauntlet of hate is thrown down. So, as a community, we’ve been collectively horrified over the last several weeks by disturbing events, which, until very recently, have been passed over by both the mainstream media and, if you ask people around here, the serious attention of law enforcement officials. First it was a series of dumpster/garbage can fires set by arsonists with gasoline. Then the now publicized beatings of several residents by groups of youth, often on bicycles. Scean Rose, owner of Riverhorse, a club in the 700 block of E. Center, has reported “frequent” incidents of purse snatchings and worse outside his bar, in plain sight of patrons. In the words of John Mellencamp, it’s hard times for an honest man. People are understandably shaken. And in the midst of the crisis, the gauntlet of hatred has been thrown down. On Saturday, July 12, racist flyers were distributed throughout Riverwest by a group calling itself RAM- the Riverwest Anti-Nigger Movement. The handbill called for “you niggers to vacate all white premises IMMEDIATELY!” There’s more, and it’s even worse. In fact, it’s obscene. It was meant to frighten, to breed hostility and paranoia, to pit neighbor against neighbor. But it has backfired. Riverwest will be walking. And watching. On July 14, two meetings were held. Notice of the first, held at Onopa Brewing Co., spread by word of mouth for less than a day. Over 50 people attended, even though the meeting was held in the afternoon before many people were home from work. It was mostly younger people, and action was […]
Aug 1st, 2003 by Jon Anne Willow
