pub crawl: Milwaukee

I raised the cold glass to my parched lips and drank deeply of the misty auburn fluid. Holding an orange slice aloft, I turned to my husband.

"You see, it's made from wheat and comes with citrus," I instructed him. "So it's not only tasty, it's actually good for you too."

"Wonderful" he said, hoisting his Miller Lite. "But I like my beer to just sit and be beer."

I bent back the peel and bit into the fruit. Mmm. Liquid sunshine.

We were sitting at the bar of a small collegiate pub in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Last year at about this time we were in the Napa Valley touring wineries, nibbling walnut brie and sipping Pinot Noir; today we thought it would be fun to round out our gastronomic education by noshing kielbasa and quaffing some local Hefeweizen; maybe a lager or two. You know, as long as we were in the neighborhood.

Having left home sans maps or guidebook ("It's Milwaukee, for crissakes; not outer Mongolia! How lost can we get?") we blithely drove past the Tourist Information Centers, which are inconveniently located along all major highways at the border of every single state in the union and are marked with flags and everything but neon lights, but which you will miss every time and your husband will not turn around and go back because "there'll be another just down the road," but of course there won't be, and how is a city girl supposed to even know what to look for in the wilds of Wisconsin, anyway...

I'm sorry. Where was I?

Right. Lost.

Driving down the empty streets of a Saturday-deserted downtown, we decided to point the car in the direction of any large brick building we saw in hopes of scoring a brewery. As it turns out, while these had indeed been breweries at one time, in the spirit of the day they had all been converted to luxury condos and office buildings.

Et tu, Milwaukee?

At one point, a couple of cops in a patrol car watched as I executed a complete circle in the middle of a one-way street and didn't even pull me over.

"They probably heard about me forgetting to pack the maps," Turk observed dryly. Well, perhaps I did rather go on about it. But still. I give him one lousy job to do...

We amused ourselves by singing jingles from old beer commercials.

When we say Schlitz

we really mean beer

'Cos when you're out of Schlitz

you're out of beer!

You don't see them writing 'em like that about a dry Riesling, my friend.

Surprisingly enough, all of this made us thirsty. Now we were watching as a hulking young man of about 6'4'' and 220 banged on the bar and swore.

"Barkeep! Beer me!" he roared. Egged on by his buddies, he was trying to drink his way through the establishment's selection of 100-and-something draft beers, three tasting pours at a time. The challenge was taking it's toll. He stood, legs wide apart, hands splayed flatly on the bar for support. One of his mates took a picture; they laughing, he grinning lopsidedly.

A cute couple came in and sat down corner to us. She had spiked hair and a broad smile; he was sunburned and husky. They were from Minnesota, and they'd driven all the way in for the Twins v Brewers game that afternoon. Turns out, they did this all the time.

"We love your stadium!" she enthused to me.

I demurred. "Oh, it isn't really mine," I said modestly. "We're just visiting. From California."

For a moment they looked sad. Then he nodded and said, "The Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim."

It was our turn to look sad. And a little ashamed. I hung my head. Turk shook his.

"Arte Moreno," he all but whispered.

Changing the subject, I asked the bartender where we might find a tour.

"There's a good one just around the corner," he said, gesturing. "Just go out here, make a right and follow the lake. You can't miss it." People are always telling us this. And we usually do. Miss it, I mean.

The giant Beer Guy completed his challenge to great public acclaim, and won a tee shirt for his efforts. We waved goodbye to our new friends and headed out just behind him. Although two of his pals were attempting to support him on each side as he wove his way home, his size proved too much for them and he lurched sideways into the wall, laughing. Whoa! they cried, lurching after him. The ballpark was going to be three seats short of a full house for the big game.

Five minutes later, we pulled up to a massive brick edifice, outside of which a long line of people waited to get in. A woman held up a large sign; Tour Sold Out. I asked when the next one started.

"We're closing early today," she replied. "We have a wedding!" She seemed as surprised as I was.

"Wow! That would not have occurred to me," I said in wonderment. I gazed upward. "That must be some brewery." She nodded.

Disappointed, we headed back to town for a late lunch.

We wandered into Buck Bradley's Saloon and Eatery, home of the "longest bar east of the Mississippi".

"Now this is what I call a handsome bar," said Turk, a connoisseur, as he ran his hand lovingly across the polished surface.

We took a seat and ordered. It was there, over a platter of assorted local cheese and sausages that we overheard the bartender telling another couple about a certain 'safe house'.

Interesting, I thought. I leaned in.