The Chinese Grandmother

I have verbally recited the following little story so many times that it has become part of my oral history.  It seems fitting fodder for this blog which, at times, serves as my written history.

I worked in downtown Minneapolis from June 1980 to September 2007.  During the middle third of that twenty-seven year span, I developed the following, rather loosely constructed weekly lunch schedule to which I adhered more often than not:

Mondays: Pizza at Ginelli's, located in the TCF Tower.
Tuesdays: Chicken chow mein at Bamboo Garden, located in the Northstar Center.
Wednesdays: Chili at The Loon (First Ave & 5th Street) if I was flush, otherwise at the Park Cafe located in the Hennepin County Government Center.
Thursdays: Italian meat loaf at Sorrento, located in the Northstar Center.
Fridays: Wild Card, i.e., pick somewhere different each week.

Tuesday lunches at the Bamboo Garden were a special treat for me, because there I would have a ninety second encounter with one of my all-time favorite restaurant people, who is the title character of this post.  Ironically and sadly, I can no longer remember her name.  For this post I'm going to call her "Liu."

One would think it would not be all that difficult to find good chow mein in a major city's downtown, but that was the case in Minneapolis back in the nineties.  I guess we are too far from the west coast to be afforded a large number of choices. In any event, after sampling chicken chow mein at the handful of places serving it within a reasonable walking distance, Bamboo Garden, right across Marquette Avenue from my office, was the winner.  Still operating today in the same Northstar Center location, Bamboo Garden is a Chinese restaurant where the customers, immediately upon entering, go through a cafeteria style line.  The routine calls for picking up a tray, moving from right to left while looking through the glass at the tempting offerings, and communicating selections to an employee behind the glass.  As alluded to above, I did not spend any time mulling over my choice of lunch; it was going to be chicken chow mein, no matter what else was on display.

The employee at the start of the line was Liu, always ready with a smile which would momentarily allow you to forget the stress, politics and mayhem of the office you just left.  Her diminutive stature and winning personality reminded me of my Italian grandma.  Seeing and speaking with Liu was always the highlight of my weekly Bamboo Garden visits, to be immediately followed by the lowlight (explained shortly).  Although I am terrible at guessing a person's age, it's safe to say that Liu was in her seventies, probably a grandmother and perhaps even a great grandmother.  I'm also fairly confident in guessing that she was related to and likely the mother of the much younger woman, whom I'll refer to as "Zhi," at the end of the line.  Zhi multi-tasked behind the counter as the manager and cashier.

Liu's most charming aspect was that she appeared to speak almost no English.  In fact, in all the years I went through her line at the Bamboo Garden, I only heard her say three quasi-sentences, which were interrogatories:

"Here to go?"  Did I plan to eat my lunch in the adjoining dining room, or was this going to be a take-out order?  I always opted for the former.

"Fwie wie, wie wie?"  (Each rhyming with "rye.")  Did I want fried rice or white rice with my chow mein?  Again, I always opted for the former.

Her third question was the one I cherished the most: "Ah pah tie zah?"  Did I want an appetizer, such as an egg roll?  I usually declined.  What I really wanted was for Liu to repeat that third question, but of course I never asked her to do so.  I counted on hearing it every Tuesday afternoon, and she never let me down!

A few months after I started eating at the Bamboo Garden, I told my kids about Liu's marvelous third question.  Her unique pronunciation of "appetizer" thereupon became a staple of the family lexicon.  No one at our dining room table -- well, except for Momma Cuandito -- ever pronounced the word other than in the fashion originated by Liu.  It is an established tradition at the Quentin Estates.

Unfortunately, but understandably, Zhi did not share the enduring charisma of Liu.  Zhi was all business and at times even stern.  She kept the line moving and simultaneously oversaw the dining room, making sure tables were cleared and the bus boys were doing their job.  The lunch business downtown is highly competitive, and I'm sure Zhi felt the burden.  Still, in her apparent quest to turn a profit, she had one practice which was annoying and ridiculous.

As the food plate made its way from Liu's end to Zhi, Zhi would closely examine the portion, making sure that Liu had not been too generous with her ladle full of food.  If Liu had put too much chicken in the chow mein, Zhi would take a pair of tongs, pick the excess chicken off and place it back in the pot.  Keep in mind that what we're talking about here is not ribeye or lobster; it's chicken!  The pieces of chicken were usually tiny, no bigger than the surface area on the nail of a person's little finger.  It would be rare for me to get through the line without Zhi removing four or five of the infinitesimally small nuggets.  If I didn't like Liu so much, Zhi's absurd frugality would have been a show stopper.

I patronized Bamboo Garden for many years.  Then for a string of three or four consecutive weeks  I noticed Liu was no longer there.  I don't know why, but hopefully it was a voluntary retirement in good health.  For a short time afterward I even peeked in the restaurant's window facing 7th Street whenever I happened to be walking by, but there was no sign of her.  Liu's absence opened the door for me to satisfy my Chinese food craving on Tuesdays at a different restaurant called Canton Village, located in the Soo Line Building.  The specialty there was kung pao chicken.  I ate at Canton Village on Tuesdays for at least five years until the owners lost their lease.  Not once did the manager remove any excess chicken from my plate.        

Burger And A Beer? No Problem!

THE QUID PRO QUO

Although she has turned into a bona fide college hoops fan, I kind of felt sorry for Momma Cuandito last weekend. What caused this sympathy was my television viewing plan covering Friday night through Monday, as follows:

Friday: NCAA women's Final Four semi-finals from Tampa, including # 1 seed Notre Dame (the "Irish Lassies," as I like to call them) versus the # 2 seed UConn Huskies. This heated rivalry has been labeled by many sports journalists as the best in the women's game over the last decade. The ND-UConn tilt was slated to follow the other semi-final, # 1 seed Baylor vs. # 2 seed Oregon.  Naturally I felt an obligation to watch the Lady Bears-Ducks semi in case Irish head coach Muffet McGraw called me later for a scouting report on the winner.  I've always been a fan of Muffet ever since she responded with a hand-written note to a congratulatory letter I sent her following Notre Dame's 2001 National Championship.  [An aside:  Many observers have opined that Muffet and UConn head coach Geno Auriemma don't appear to like each other.  At the Women's Final Four Media Day, they were asked about their relationship, and whether they might be friends if not for their teams' rivalry.  Muffet answered, "I would respect him, but I wouldn't want to be married to him."  Geno replied, "I wouldn't want to be married to me either."]

Saturday: Considered by hoops fanatics to be the greatest sports day of the year, the two NCAA men's Final Four semi-finals, Auburn-Virginia and Michigan State-Texas Tech.  The winners get to play for the National Championship.  Having the Final Four in Minneapolis was exciting for our metro area, but the truth is I would watch every second of both games regardless of the venue location.  By comparison, my annual agenda for watching the NBA playoffs is this:  Wait for the final series, and if there is a Game 7 I will watch the last two minutes.

Sunday and Monday: The NCAA women's national championship finals and the men's, respectively, each preceded by an hour long pre-game show.

All together, that's about sixteen or seventeen hours of boob tube watching over a four evening span.  To compensate Momma Cuan for the hogging of our TV, I had a brilliant (BRILLIANT!) idea. "Let's go out for lunch Saturday," I suggested.  Momma Cuan was all in.

THE GAME PLAN

Since we each have different favorites when it comes to pizza and burgers, we usually take turns picking the establishment if one of those foods is what we jointly have in mind.  For example, if we're going for pizza, The Leaning Tower (24th & Lyndale) is my fave, whereas Momma Cuan prefers Black Sheep (26th & Nicollet).  Both are very acceptable to each of us, so it makes little difference whose turn it is to pick.  The same can not be said for hamburgers.  Everyone who knows me well is aware of my periodic craving for the Amsterdam burger at Park Tavern, aka the "PT."  For years I have labeled it the best burger in the Twin Cities.  MC absolutely loves Lake & Irving's entire menu, but especially their burger.  Unlike the pizza situation, I honestly don't relish L & I's burger.  I believe I'm a minority of one in my family.  (For what it's worth, my second place burger is the Mount Mushmore at JL Beers in Nordeast (First Ave & University).  JLB's burgers cost under $7, and as an extra added attraction they boast a fantastic tap beer selection.)

Our late Saturday morning conversation regarding dining destination went something like this.  You might notice hints of Minnesota-speak therein.

Me:  Where would you like to go for lunch?  What do you have a taste for?

MC:  I could really go for a great hamburger; haven't had one in awhile.

Me:  Okay, where do you want to go? (At this point I was sure she was going to say "Lake & Irving," but she surprised me.)

MC:  Oh, I don't care, you pick.  (At this point, I'm sure Mary thought I was going to choose the PT.)

Me, still feeling a little guilty about all the college hoops I'd been watching and still planned to watch that weekend:  How 'bout if I name five places, and you can pick from that list?

MC:  Okay.

Me:  Harriet's Inn, Merlin's Rest, The Lowbrow, Pat's Tap and Red Wagon (actually a pizza joint).  (Notice I left out L & I, but neither did I include the PT or JLB.)

MC: I can't decide.

Me: Well, what if I narrow it down to just two of those five?

MC:  Okay.

Me:  The Lowbrow or Merlin's?

MC: Where is The Lowbrow again?  Oh, yeah, 43rd and Nicollet.  Let's go there.

THE ADVENTURE

We left the Quentin Estates at 1:00, heading for south Minneapolis.  Although we had intentionally omitted downtown lunch spots from our list of of possibilities due to the congestion expected with the Final Four, we still hit a bunch of traffic snags along Lake Street.  As we slowly passed by The Lake Formerly Known As Calhoun, I half-expected Momma C to say, "I've changed my mind.  Let's do Lake & Irving."  You know what they say about a woman's prerogative.  But, that did not happen; we arrived at The Lowbrow around 1:30.

Our server was a nice young man whose name I didn't catch, but let's call him Oliver.  Oliver informed us that, on Saturdays, The Lowbrow served only brunch until 2:00.   "Lunch is not available until 2:00," he said almost apologetically.  He left to attend to another table, but promised he'd return quickly.  Mary and I had a meeting of the minds simply by making eye contact with each other.  We had already eaten breakfast that morning.  We had just spent a half-hour in the car getting pumped for hamburgers.  We were not in the mood for brunch, but hey, no problem.  We will simply order Bloody Marys, nurse those drinks for a half hour, then grub down on burgers.  Oliver soon returned and Mary told him our plan.

"Great," the eager Oliver exclaimed.  "But just so you know, we are unable to serve real Bloody Marys here, due to a neighborhood legal restriction.  I can offer you a Bloody Beer [made with Hamms which, as I recall, is barely drinkable suds from the old days] or a Sake Bloody."

Another silent meeting of the minds.  Both of those alternatives sounded disgusting, or as our granddaughter Rosie would say, "exgusting."  "I'll be right back," claimed the over-extended Oliver.

Mary and I figured by the time we drove to another restaurant or bar, it would be almost 2:00, so we came up with yet another idea.  Might as well stay at The Lowbrow, kill the 30 minute wait with a couple of beers, then order burgers at 2:00.  When Oliver returned as promised, we told him our new plan.

"Great," Oliver cried joyfully.  Then there was a pregnant pause.  "But just so you know..."  As soon as he uttered those five words we knew what followed would not be good.  "... we can't start cooking our lunch items right at 2:00 because it takes the kitchen about twenty-five minutes to clean the grill and convert their operation from brunch to lunch."

Sigh.  As we exited The Lowbrow we concluded the travel gods must have taken today off.

***

A short attempt for lunch at Revival proved equally fruitless and nearly fatal.  That small restaurant, which rightfully has a reputation as the premier place in Minneapolis for fried chicken, was not on our radar before we'd set out for The Lowbrow, but the two places are right across Nicollet Avenue from each other.  We had loved our two previous Revival visits, so using the Bird In The Hand Theory, we decided to give it a shot.

Two problems, getting there and getting seated.  Crossing Nicollet at 43rd Street is literally tempting fate.  The vehicles come whizzing by from both directions without regard to pedestrians.  After our second aborted attempt Mary reminded me that a few months ago a woman was killed right there trying to do what we were struggling to do now, i.e., crossing Nicollet to get to Revival.  Our third time was the charm, only to find out that people were lined up inside for what appeared to be at least a forty-five minute wait.  Neither one of us was in the waiting mode, especially following our disappointments at Lowbrow.  Crossing Nicollet a second time to get back to our car proved more challenging than the first, as a city bus decided to park along the curb on the south side of 43rd, obstructing our view of oncoming traffic.  We had to go out almost to the center line to scope out a break.

***

When we reached our car parked two blocks away, it was time to reconsider our options.  By now we were not only frustrated, but hungry as well.  We weren't that far from Matt's Bar (35th & Cedar), but decided that was too much of a tourist attraction for the out-of-towners here for the Final Four.  Friday night's local news telecast confirmed that.  Pat's Tap (35th & Nicollet) was even closer, but when their outdoor patio is closed at this time of year, the inside space gets filled up quickly.  Once again, I wondered if Momma Cuan was going to bring up Lake & Irving, but I was not about to propose the idea.  "Well, Merlin's Rest is still an option," I pointed out to her, "and a Belhaven would taste pretty good right now."  We drove off, destination 36th Avenue & East Lake.

***

Merlin's Rest is a Longfellow neighborhood bar which we discovered several years ago.  It is the only tavern in Minneapolis which serves Belhaven on tap, so even though it requires a grueling drive up and down Lake Street, we need a Belhaven fix every so often.  Belhaven is to Scottish ale what Guinness is to stout.  It is even poured the same way, meaning the bartender lets the first stage settle in the glass before topping it off with a perfect head.  At Merlin's, the food is almost an afterthought.

This was turning out to be a day in which plan flexibility was not only well-advised but even mandatory.  We still tinkered with other dining ideas as we zig zagged across the residential streets of south Minny, bound for Merlin's.  First Mary proposed heading to a bar in the Nokomis neighborhood where we had enjoyed good burgers last year.  The problem was neither of us could recall the name of the place, although I knew it used to be the Sunrise Inn.  I was foggy on the location, but vaguely remembered walking to the Sunrise over ten years ago from the Blue Line's 46th Street station.  We headed for 46th, but before I could get there I found myself in a left turn only lane when I needed to go straight.  Unable to change lanes, we found ourselves going southwest on Hiawatha.  When we couldn't get a cell phone signal to figure out directions, we scrapped those short-lived plans for the Nokomis place.  (For the record, the bar we were momentarily trying to get to is called the Bull's Horn on 46th Street and 34th Avenue.  We'll have to save that idea for another time.)

When we passed Roosevelt High School we contemplated checking out Northbound, a smoke house so-named because it is spitting distance away from the Blue Line's 38th Street station.  Smokehouse is one of those places where the aroma from the kitchen grabs you as soon as you walk inside.  It's also another place which, like Merlin's, I associate with a particular beer, in this case their Smokehouse Porter.  Yum!  Writing about it makes me want to go there soon.

By the time we arrived at Merlin's we truly needed a rest.  It had been almost an hour and a half since we'd left the Quentin Estates.  Maybe we shouldn't have been so adventurous in our quest for burgers and beers.  The restaurant was not busy at mid-day and we easily found two stools at the rail.  The bar was being tended by Allie, who sports a tattooed outline of the state of Minnesota above her left breast.  I always think it would have been more appropriate for her to have chosen Scotland's Highlands, this being a Scottish pub, but who am I to judge?  She has served us a number of times before and, to her credit, pours an excellent pint.  

After starting out with delicious Belhavens, we at last ordered our long sought burgers, The Burger (aka plain burger with cheese) for Momma C and an Irish Burger for me.  I would have ordered a Scottish burger, but none appeared on the menu.  The Irish Burger's "secret ingredient" is Connemara bacon jam.  Fifteen minutes later, as she presented our meals, Allie raved about how much she loved her employer's burgers.  She told us that she refused to eat a hamburger anywhere other than Merlin's and one other Minneapolis restaurant which had the same meat supplier.  Mary obliged Allie by asking which other restaurant.  Allie replied, "Lake & Irving.  Are you familiar with it?"

View, Then Brew

The last movie I reviewed here was Macbeth on December 21 (B).  The film was delivered in old Shakespearean language which required the utmost concentration.  I was exhausted after two hours of trying to interpret the spoken words, keeping the characters straight, and following along with the plot development.  You might wonder, how could an old decrepit finance major manage such a feat.  The answer: It was a team effort, with Momma Cuandito helping me to fill in the blanks over a couple of tasty beers during our postmortem at the Pig & Fiddle.

Postmortems are a vital part of the movie-going experience.  Whenever possible, I enjoy discussing a movie soon after viewing it.  The more complicated or nuanced a film is, the more someone else's take is beneficial.  Even for straight forward stories, there are few times when you and your viewing partner share exactly the same recollections and impressions.  Thus Momma Cuan and I have developed a routine which results in most of our movie outings expanding into double features, i.e., the movie itself, followed by a beer or two at a nearby watering hole.

Almost all of the movies we attend are shown at one of five theaters, four of which are within a ten minute drive from the Quentin Estates.  As luck would have it, each of those theaters is located near at least one neighborhood bar, making our postmortems extremely convenient.  Here is where you will find us dissecting our films of choice, with a brief tidbit or two about each place.

1. Mann's St. Louis Park Cinema.  This is a very comfortable first run six-screen theater, with seating on two floors.   The same middle aged guy, Robert, has been selling tickets there for umpteen years, and the next time he greets me with a "hello" will be the first.  Granite City Food & Brewery is practically right next door.  Its Mug Club is the only club of any kind to which I belong (the only club that would have me?).  Before you turn up your nose at GC because it's a chain, you must try their Two Pull, a mixture of their Northern Light and Brother Benedict Bock beers.  Think "black & tan." If you join the Mug Club, you'll get a huge schooner for the price of a pint, plus 10% off on food.  Their maple pepper bacon flat bread is particularly good.

2. ShowPlace Icon.  Locally referred to as the "West End Theater," this fourteen screen behemoth in the Park is the place to see huge epics with sensational cinematography and Surround Sound.  (I plan to see The Revenant there.)  Of our five most frequented movie houses, it is by far the most modern state-of-the-art facility.  But I always snicker at the pretentiousness of Icon's practice of having you reserve a seat for a showing with only six or seven other customers in attendance.  Equally pretentious is the sixty second oration one of the ushers renders as a greeting before they dim the lights.  PUHLEESE, this isn't a Minnesota Orchestra concert!  There are any number of saloons in the West End to wet your whistle: Crave if you are a yupster, Rojo if you'd rather have a margarita instead of suds, Cooper if you think it's a great day for a Guinness.  The one I like best is Yard House.  Yes, it's another chain, and it can get noisy.  But their beer selection is limitless, and their food is better than its competitors.  Their outdoor patio is the only such space removed from West End vehicular traffic.  Caveat: The difference between Yard House's happy hour and non-happy hour prices is vast.

3. Hopkins Theater.  If you're looking for a cheap date, the six-screen Hopkins is the place.  They never charge more than $3.00 per ticket, and most of the time it's $2.50.  This is the last stop for films which have already played in first run theaters for awhile before becoming available on DVD.  There are two taverns within ten giant steps of the entrance.  The Big 10 has a small bar and little ambiance.  However, it is quiet and their limited beer selection is actually not bad.  Across the street, the Wild Boar is more of a blue collar sports bar with several TVs and above-average food.  The clientele is much younger than the Big 10's, which can mean more noisy and over-swerved customers, if you catch my drift.  I'm willing to put up with it because I am a chili snob, and I do like the Boar's version.

4. Willow Creek.  Located near the I-394/169 intersection in Plymouth, this is kind of a mid-level theater, similar to the Mann.  By that I mean it's not modern or equipped with technological bells and whistles like the Icon, but the films available there are often first run.  The advantage here over the Mann is that there are twice as many screens, hence a broader selection from which to choose.  Of course the obvious disadvantage is the longer drive to get to Plymouth.  The other disadvantage is the bar scene.  The only close place is Kip's, located a half-mile away in the Marriott Hotel.  Kip's calls itself an Irish pub, but without any nooks and crannies it's a far cry from the authentic Irish pubs I've patronized.  (For that matter, so is the West End's Cooper.)  If you have Guinness on tap and offer corned beef and cabbage, does that make your place an Irish pub?  Me thinks not.  I like GC much better.

5. Edina Theater.  It's true, the Cake Eaters do let Park riff raff like me cross their borders periodically to spend money.  The Edina is one of three Landmark Theaters in the area, and is where we usually go for foreign films, independent studio offerings and so-called art house movies.  The theater itself is the most uncomfortable of the five we patronize, resulting in the need for a drink afterwards even if I'm by myself.  Which brings us to the Pig & Fiddle, or as we prefer calling it, the Fig & Fiddle. (Momma Cuan and I like alliteration, I guess.)  Hands down, the Fiddle offers the most unique esoteric beer selection of any of our haunts, which apparently justifies their decision to overprice their menu.  The bar staff is well versed on the offerings, and they take their beer seriously.  The Fiddle also serves a five star pretzel appetizer, which goes perfectly with the suds.

In closing, here is a little reflection relating to this post.  When Momma Cuan and I made our way to the Pig & Fiddle after viewing Macbeth, the time was approaching 4:00, nearing dusk on a late December afternoon.  Mary ordered her usual, Tripel Karmeliet, while I started with an Unrated Rye IPA from local Nordeast brewer, 612.  Nothing unusual there, except we managed to cop two of the coveted window seats, partially illuminated by the pub's colorful neon signs. We savored our high ABV drinks and devoured our customary pretzel while we watched fluffy white flakes gently descend, illuminated by the headlights of cars carrying commuters home from work.  We shared our thoughts on Macbeth, proudly concluding -- possibly from the effects of our beverages -- that we'd squeezed about as much meaning from the story as any Shakespearean scholar could devise. For a moment I felt like this was an out-of-body experience. Why?

I thought back years ago to all the Christmastime bus rides I'd taken post-rush hour from downtown to my home. Too tired to read, I would peer out the window at the Uptown bars and restaurants filled with people celebrating the season.  They appeared to have been there for hours, and it was easy to feel sorry for myself.  I wanted to trade places with them so that I, too, could get into the holiday spirit.  Now, sitting with Momma Cuan by the Fiddle's window with the pretty winter view, the shoe was on the other foot.

Marquette Hotel Bar, 10:30 a.m.

One week ago today came the sad news that Target Corporation was terminating the employment of hundreds of people.  There was no advance warning.  The local television news showed fired employees carting boxes of their personal belongings out of the headquarters building, into the street.  The Star Tribune's glaring front page headline the next day read, "1700 Target Jobs Lost In Day Of Pain, Drama."  Another day later, Target released a statement saying that "this would be the first [wave of] several thousand" job cuts.

From its inception this constituted more than a business news item, but a human interest story as well.  My first reaction was genuine heartfelt sympathy for the people who lost their jobs.  For some, it might turn out to be a blessing, if they manage to attain a more rewarding job somewhere else.  But even for those lucky few, and for all the others, especially those with families, it is a major upheaval to their lives.

My second reaction, to coin a phrase, was this: There, but for the grace of God, go I.  Memories of another, distant bleak Monday morning came back to me.

Although it happened seventeen years ago, the morning of June 8, 1998 is one I will never forget.  When I got my usual case of the Monday Morning Blues on the preceding Sunday evening, June 7, I had no inkling of what was about to transpire the next day.  My customary morning routine before leaving for work would be to fetch the paper from the front porch, unfold it to check the front page headlines, and then swig down a cup of coffee before racing out the door.  That routine was cast asunder when I saw the headline, "Norwest To Merge With Wells Fargo."  The coffee would have to wait; I had to sit down.  This was my life's future I was about to read.

In my capacity as an in-house commercial attorney with Norwest, I was quite familiar with how bank mergers and acquisitions worked.  I had been on several "due diligence" missions in which Norwest, as a potential buyer, would descend upon the "target" bank holding company to examine its books and records.  With the exception of a handful of people, the employees of the target company were unaware of our presence or that their employer was likely on the verge of being sold.  This clandestine approach was necessary not only to keep our competitors from catching wind of our interest -- with a bidding war a possible undesired outcome -- but also to comply with SEC regulations against stock price manipulations.  There was also the concern of the target's employees jumping ship before Norwest could consummate the deal.

Notwithstanding this personal experience and familiarity with corporate deals seemingly coming out of nowhere, the June 8th merger news really blind-sided me and my colleagues.  Now we were the ones taken by surprise, and it was not a good feeling, to say the least.  Did the merger with Wells mean we'd be out of a job?  If we didn't lose our jobs immediately, would we have to move to San Francisco, Wells Fargo's corporate headquarters, to keep them?  If so, that might mean having to study for, not to mention pass, the infamous California Bar Exam.  Who would run the Commercial Section of the Law Department if, in fact, the Commercial Section survived?  (Some banks "farm out" most of their commercial work to outside counsel.  Was this how Wells operated?)  How would our daily responsibilities change?  These were just some of the questions going through our collective minds.  What made our predicament worse was that the impending shakeup was out of our control.  It is futile to attempt to control the things you can't control, and we all knew it.

Attempts to work that Monday morning were pointless.  Who could concentrate?  Meetings were postponed, calls were left unanswered and deadlines were missed.  Why pretend to be productive when our days on the job might be numbered?  Then, one of my colleagues had a brilliant idea.  What we really needed was a drink!  So what if it was only 10:30 in the morning?

About twenty of us traipsed across Seventh Street to the Marquette Hotel Bar, the most proximate watering hole to our office.  This wasn't a Bloody Mary party.  Bourbon, scotch and vodka were the most popular drinks of choice.  I opted for J & B on the rocks, the only time I've ever had the hard stuff that early in the day.  We carried on a round table discussion of sorts, with predictions on how the merger would shake out, and what we knew about Wells Fargo.  We were all in the dark regarding our futures, although a couple of the lawyers from the Corporate Section of our Law Department had more insight on Wells than the rest of us.  One of the disquieting things about Wells Fargo was that when they merged with First Interstate in 1996, Wells allegedly totally botched the transition, and many First Interstate customers bailed out in a huff.  That did not portend well for the future of Norwest.  Between that session at the hotel bar and the consummation of the merger several months later, dozens of rumors -- some which turned out to be accurate, some ludicrous -- flew around our department.

This story had a happy ending for me and almost all of the other Norwest lawyers.  The merger was structured with Norwest being the acquiring company, and Wells Fargo being the target/acquired company.  Thus, Wells was merged into Norwest, which then changed its name to "Wells Fargo."  (The marketing people could hardly wait to get the Wells stagecoach logo onto its billboards, print advertisements, media commercials, etc.)  The big question for us remained:  Who was going to be the General Counsel (aka top dog) of the merged Law Department?  Would it be Guy Rounsaville, the GC from pre-merger Wells, or Stanley Stroup, the GC from pre-merger Norwest.  (You might recall my writing about Stan in my May 23, 2014 post, Daniel Martin Thwarts A Score Of Lawyers.  I called him "the most brilliant lawyer I have ever known.")   After weeks of suspense, the Board Of Directors of the merged company, much to the relief and delight of the Norwest lawyers, chose Stan.  You probably couldn't get Stan to admit it, but the consensus of the Minneapolis lawyers was that Stan watched out for his people, just as we anticipated he would on that Monday morning in the hotel bar.

In June 1998 I was fifty years old.  Momma Cuan and I still had one kid in college, one in high school and one in junior high.  Mary's whole family and my mother lived in the Twin Cities.  We had already decided back in 1983 that we did not want to leave Minnesota.  The prospects of uprooting our family fifteen years later was something we did not even want to think about.  But what if the Board Of Directors had chosen Rounsaville, a man I'd never met, for General Counsel?  My personal career story might not have had as happy an ending.  Those are the things that have crossed my mind over the past week when I've read about the dismissals at Target.  As I wrote above, there, but for the grace of God, go I.

Sojourn In Sudsville

Momma Cuandito and I made our twelfth annual trip to Milwaukee last week to see the Twins take on the Milwaukee Brewers.  To be precise, this was the twelfth year in a row we've gone to Milwaukee to see Major League baseball, and the eleventh time we've seen the Twins versus the Brew Crew there.  The exception was two years ago when we saw the Brewers play the Cubbies instead of the Twins because the daughter of one of Mary's close friends had the audacity to schedule her wedding on the same weekend we otherwise would have followed the Twins to Sudsville.  The Twins-Brewers face off this year was a battle for the ages, as both teams were in last place in their respective divisions.

Our frequent traveling partners, Admiral Bob and Madame Cipolle, were unable to join us for the festivities; something about a little car race in Indy on the same weekend.  Nevertheless, Momma Cuan and I still managed to enjoy ourselves, as we always do in the beer drinking capital of North America, Milwaukee.  Here are some reflections on our excursion.

* We have been staying the past several years at the Ambassador Hotel, a renovated art deco structure which sits on the very western edge of downtown.  Two blocks to the east is Marquette University, home of the Warriors (I mean, the Golden Eagles).  Two blocks to the west is the hood.  There are two main features which attract us to the Ambassador.  First, the hotel runs a shuttle service for its guests, taking them anywhere within a four mile radius.  In all the years we've stayed at the Ambassador, we have only desired transportation to three or four places outside that radius, in which case we've driven ourselves or taken a cab.  Our usual M.O. is to park our car in the hotel lot when we arrive, and not get in it again until departure day.  Two of our three favorite hotel employees are shuttle drivers, Santiago and Sam, who have been working that job for several years.  Santiago, a bald headed philosopher with a ring in his ear, has the unique ability to tell you his life story and cures for the world's ills, all within the duration of a ten minute ride.  He is a guitarist and loves his motorcycle.  If he had a patch over an eye he could pass for one of Captain Hook's pirates.  Sam is a retired Milwaukee city fire fighter who took early retirement but decided working part-time as a driver was better than trying to keep up with his honey-do list around the house.  Sam and his wife have a cabin near Boulder Junction, Wisconsin, and he told us it's bigger than his residence in Milwaukee.  Thank God for defined benefit pensions for public employees!  Sam's best talent is the ability to give his passengers the low down on all the Milwaukee eateries, watering holes and attractions.  He has never given us a bum steer. 

The Ambassador's other main feature which is a big plus for us is the hotel bar, aka the Envoy Lounge.  It is here that you'd find the third of our favorite employees, Chris.  He is what I think of as the model bartender, because he is attentive without being annoying, he knows how to fix a mixed drink, and he's not stingy filling up the wine or draught beer glass.  Either he remembered Momma Cuan and me from our previous stays, or he is a very good actor.  When you return to the hotel after an evening on the town, it is nice to have the option of enjoying a nightcap in the Envoy before calling it a night.  A word of caution, however: Don't order a Tullamore Dew Irish whiskey unless you're willing to fork over fourteen smackers for the shot.  That sticker shock reminded me of why I'm a beer drinker.

One thing we didn't know about the Ambassador before this most recent visit: They have a pillow menu.  If you don't like the pillows they put in your room, select a different one from the pillow menu and the housekeeping people will fulfill your request.  We started out with medium fiber-filled, and ended up with soft down-filled.  To my knowledge, I have never stayed in a place that offered that service, but then for the rate I usually pay at the Motel 6, you can't have everything.  

* On Monday evening we were waiting with another couple from Boston for the shuttle to take us downtown. They appeared to be about our age.  We struck up a conversation for a few minutes before boarding.  When the van pulled up, Mary and I crawled onto far back bench seat, and as the Bostonians got into the middle seat the guy noticed that I had my arm around Mary.  The man jokingly asked, "Say, do you know that woman you're sitting with?" to which I replied, "Only for forty-one years."  With that, his female companion turned around and exclaimed, "No!  You two aren't old enough to know each other that long!"  When we told them we'd been married for thirty-seven years, she still had an incredulous look.  That made my day, even though she was undoubtedly focusing more on Mary.

* We discovered a new bar to patronize before heading to Miller Park.  Saz's is located on State Street, about two miles directly north of the stadium and a stone's throw west of the huge Miller Brewery.  Saz's strong suit is barbecue ribs, and the beer selection is impressive.  We sat in the bar area, which has the feel of a neighborhood gathering spot that gets busy in a hurry when the regulars show up.  The bar itself is circular and small enough to facilitate chatter among most of the stool occupants.  In addition to the bar area, there are two other dining rooms.  The walls in every room are covered with Wisconsin sports posters, pictures and other memorabilia, including several framed autographed jerseys from professional athletes with local ties.  Saz's runs little buses to Miller Park, leaving about every ten to fifteen minutes.  On Tuesday night we took the Ambassador shuttle to Saz's, then after a tasty rib dinner took Saz's bus to the game, and returned to the Ambassador on the hotel bus after the game.  Incidentally, we did not get back to the Ambassador until shortly after midnight, and the Envoy was closing up.  But, our buddy Chris snuck us in.  What a guy!

* I suppose I should write something about the two games we saw, since that was the main reason for our trip.  The Twins won both contests, but some of the things that struck me as noteworthy had nothing directly to do with the game action itself.  For instance, the first game was a Memorial Day matinee, and the teams wore camouflage caps honoring the military.  Before the singing of the National Anthem, the Twins lined up along the third base line, and then the Brewers came out of their dugout and lined up on the first base line.  The cool thing was that former Twin Carlos ("Go Go") Gomez walked over to Twins manager Ron Gardenhire and shook his hand before joining his fellow Brewers.  That was an unscripted classy move that seemed to take Gardy by surprise.  The several thousand Twins fans in Milwaukee that day cheered for Go Go every time he came up.  He has always been a fan favorite in the Twin Cities, and he is a better ball player now than he was as a youngster with the Twins.  (Going into the series, he was hitting .326.)  Coincidentally, in Monday's game Go Go creamed two monstrous home runs, including one that traveled over 450 feet.

The Tuesday game started at 7:10 p.m., lasted fourteen innings, and did not end until 11:53.  I've got to give a tip of the cap to Momma Cuan, who hung in there for every pitch.  The paid attendance for the game was 24,415, and I would estimate that only around 10,000 were around to see the final inning.  Miller Park-- and before that, Milwaukee County Stadium-- is famous for the sausage races which take place before the bottom of the sixth inning.  Five humans donning sausage mascot costumes trot around the perimeter of the infield, and the crowd goes nuts.  To reward the die-hard fans who did not leave early, a second sausage race was conducted before the bottom of the twelfth inning!  I'm not sure what the odds were on the Daily Double, but for the record the winners were Italian Sausage (Guido) and Hot Dog (Frankie Furter).  We also did a 14th inning stretch as the organist played "Take Me Out To The Ball Game" for the second time that night.

The extra sausage races and the extra inning "stretch" weren't the only new visual experiences for me on Tuesday night.  I saw something else which was out of the ordinary and could only happen in a National League park.  Usually when a manager has two pitchers warming up in the bullpen, one is a righty and the other is a southpaw.  Sometimes it's because the manager is unsure at what point he's going to need to pull his pitcher, and sometimes it's because he is planning on using both relief pitchers on back-to-back hitters hitting from opposite sides of the plate.  The extraordinary phenomenon I witnessed occurred in the bottom of the fourth inning.  The Twins were winning 4 to 0 going into the Brewers' bottom half of the inning, but Twins starting pitcher Scott Diamond, who had been brilliant for the first three innings, all of a sudden hit a wall and could not get back his rhythm.  He gave up hits to five of the first six hitters he faced in the 4th, and before you could say "Great seats, eh buddy?" the score was 4 to 3 with the tying run on second and only one out.  Gardy looked like he needed a stiff drink.  Pitching coach Rick Anderson was trying to avoid making eye and audio contact with Gardy.  The Twins had two pitchers frantically getting ready in the bullpen, but unlike what would be happening if the game were in an AL park, both guys warming up were right handed pitchers.  I figured out why, and shared my observation with MC, whose response was "oh."  If your response would be the same if you had the misfortune of having to sit next to me at a baseball game, you should skip the next paragraph.

Here is why the Twins were warming up two right handed pitchers simultaneously in the bullpen.  The pitcher (9-hole) was due to lead off the top of the 5th for the Twins.  If Gardy replaced Diamond before he could get out of the near-disastrous 4th, the new pitcher would probably be replaced by a pinch hitter in the Twins' half of the 5th, and a second reliever would have to be utilized to pitch in the bottom of the fifth.  Thus, the Twins would have burned through an extra pitcher for the sole purpose of relieving Diamond.  The next two Brewers batters (Yuniesky Betancourt and Alfredo Figaro) scheduled to face Diamond in the fourth were right handed batters, so Gardy had one righty (Ryan Pressly) ready to be called in to get out of the inning, and a second righty (Casey Fien) to start the 5th after Pressly would be lifted for a pinch hitter.  As it turned out, Diamond got out of the inning without further damage by inducing Betancourt to hit into a 5-4-3 double play, but it was clear that Gardy was ready to come out with the hook if Betancourt had reached.  In an American League park, where pitchers don't bat, the need to warm up two right-handed (or for that matter, left-handed) pitchers at the same time would not exist. 

The Twins' winning run was scored in the top of the 14th inning on a sacrifice fly by pinch hitter Eduardo Escobar.  His heroic launch came at about 11:35.  Prior to that, he had been sitting in the dugout for almost four and a half hours, waiting for his turn to get into the game.  

* I have probably driven the Minneapolis to Madison stretch of Interstate 94 about 300 times.  Attending college in Indiana, visiting friends and assorted rellies in Chicago, having a daughter, The Beanschwagel, living in Madison and Milwaukee, and another daughter, JR Sacejewea, living in the Windy City, not to mention baseball games in Sudsville and occasional football games in The Bend and Mad City, necessitated lots of those trips.  I have tried many a bar and restaurant (diners, drive-ins & dives, to coin a phrase) along the way.  No blog post about a trip to Milwaukee would be complete without at least mentioning my two current (and long-time) favorite spots on the route.  The first is the Norske Nook, located in Osseo, Wisconsin, eighty-eight miles southeast of the St. Croix River and therefore easily found off of Exit # 88.  The three best reasons to have lunch at Norske's are butterscotch cream pie, banana cream pie and sour cream raisin pie.  Sometimes we put in our order for dessert before we order the entree, just to make sure it's sitting there waiting for us when we've finished our hot turkey sandwiches or Swedish meatballs.

Our other go-to place is Monk's Bar in the heart of downtown Wisconsin Dells.  The Dells isn't just for getting a piercing or tattoo any more!  There is no need to deliberate over Monk's attractive menu.  Just order a cheeseburger with mushrooms and fries, and you are set.  I originally thought that the tastiness of Spotted Cow on tap, which I typically use to wash down my burger, might be affecting my judgment.  But no!  On this last visit I went sans suds (diet Coke with a lime, instead), and I still place Monk's burger at the top of my Wisconsin Burger List.  And everyone knows, Wisconsin makes the best hamburgers in the country.            

Michael's Birthday

Last night, November 28, Mary and I celebrated our son Michael's thirty-first birthday, along with our daughters Gina and Jill, Michael's girlfriend Lindsey, and Lindsey's mom Marcia. We went to the birthday boy's favorite Indian restaurant, Gandi Mahal off of east Lake Street in Minneapolis, where we shared a few appetizers and seven or eight entrees. The two hours we spent there went by very quickly. The food was scrumptious, cards and presents were opened, stories were told, and there were lots of laughs. Mary brought huge cupcakes from Yum for dessert, and we all sang "Happy Birthday" to the man of the hour. Too bad most Monday nights aren't as much fun.

Michael was born on the Friday after Thanksgiving Day in 1980. Mary and I had heard that the time in labor for a mother delivering her second child typically went much faster than the first, so we weren't taking any chances. At the earliest signs that "this might be it," we scurried down to Fairview Southdale Hospital in Edina at about 5:00 p.m. that Friday, only to be told by the medical staff that the arrival of our baby would probably be hours later. The doctor even told us to walk around Southdale Mall for a while and then come back. We were rather incredulous at this news, but we did as told. One of our stops at Southdale was Swenson's Ice Cream Parlour. A few hours later we were back at Fairview, and Michael was born around 11:35 p.m.

My mother, Pook, used to call me in the morning every October 30 and sing "Happy Birthday" over the phone to me. She never failed to mention, during the course of those morning conversations, that I was born at 2:40 in the afternoon, and so I was not officially one year older until that same time of day. When we dropped Michael, Lindsey and Marcia off tonight, I happened to glance at my car radio. The time was 9:03. I thought about telling Michael as he got out of the car that he would not officially become thirty-one for another hour and a-half, but decided against it. I am not sure why. I guess for now I'm just going to let it be something that Pook used to do.