May I Suggest…

Coffee and a Market Fresh Fruit Tart

The art of the recommendation. It’s a skill born of the preternatural ability to read people and an intimate knowledge of available options. It’s why you go to your local bookstore or record store: the clerks who enthusiastically love what they stock and sell are guaranteed to connect you to what you want – even if you didn’t know what it was you wanted when you walked in the door.

The woman who walked over to the pastry case at the Cafe at the Pfister didn’t know what she wanted.  Tailed, on the other side of the counter, by a smiling barista in a striped shirt and carrying a plate, she stared hungrily at all the options.  He waited patiently, while the other baristas busied around him, plucking treats and making cappucinos.  Finally, she spoke, to nobody in particular but in the general direction of her personal gentleman barista – “should I have the lemon tart  or a chocolate cupcake?”  Without missing a beat, another barista chimed in with cheery gusto, “Oh, the lemon tart!  These are amazing – and they’re made by our own in-house pastry chefs.”  The customer didn’t bat a lash or take a breath before replying, “Lemon tart, it is!”

It’s easy to see why the barista so eagerly suggested one of these exquisite desserts.  They are prepared by finely trained chefs with not only an eye for how beautiful these pastries should be, but have the mathematical eating of them down to precise perfection.  The Market Fresh Fruit tart has just the exact number of fruit slices necessary in order for each graham cracker-packed, creamy custard-filled bite to include one piece – no more, no less.  The magic of its lustrous sheen is in the apricot glaze brushed over the top.  Hostess Sandy confirmed that while the colorful treat was, indeed, heavenly, the lemon one was also her personal favorite – “Not too sweet, just the right amount of tartness.”  (no pun intended)

At the next table over sits a gentleman with his laptop, plugged in, cell phone in hand.  Whatever he’s trying to do isn’t working and he decides to call the workday quits.  He asks for directions to the fitness club (downstairs, not by the pool on the 23rd floor as I initially thought, though I encouraged a visit to the pool if only for the view of the city and the lake) and then for a recommendation on where to eat dinner.  This is a tough one.  There’s a lot of good eating in Milwaukee – some incredible eateries have arisen or gained a stellar reputation in recent years.  “What kind of food do you like?” I ask.  He waves a hand dismissively, “whatever, doesn’t matter,” but in a way that gives me the impression he just wants to have a good time.  I go with my first instinct and suggest the Safe House, explaining that it’s really about the experience, not the food.  For those of you who are unfamiliar, it’s a spy-themed restaurant that can be tricky to find and get into, but well worth the effort.

Meanwhile, at the Lobby Lounge bar, the very outgoing Randy is making friends with all the guests, including one man (Peter) who sits with his pink tie tucked neatly into the lower portion of his shirt, one button undone in order to hide away the silky fabric so as not to spill anything on it (brilliant!).  They are discussing beer.  Particularly, the joys of being a selective beer drinker.  They are lobbing around terms like “black IPA” and gushing over Belgian trippels.  Randy offers up the recommendation of visiting Sugar Maple in Bay View as they have 60+ American craft beers on tap – on tap! – as well as Cafe Centraal where Dutch “biers” are carefully selected to include “rarities, oddities” and exclusive options.

Peter is visibly excited and intrigued, writes this down, then proceeds to share the details of a recent trip to Europe that included a visit to the last operational family brewery in Bruges, De Halve Maan, a stop in Strasbourg for Cantillon Lambic, and was capped with the Zythos Bier Festival in Belgium.  It was practically a pilgrimage.  Of course, he’s now looking forward to returning to Milwaukee, staying at the Pfister again, and checking out Randy’s recommendations.

Personally, I’m looking forward to a lemon tart, based on all the barista encouragement; tracking down a pint of Brugse Zot from De Halve Maan, based on Peter’s glowing reviews from his travels; and finding out what else the Pfister employees (and guests!) have to suggest, as they continue to prove this is an art they practice well.

YOUR TURN:  Do you have any suggestions or recommendations to share?

All the Colors of the Rainbow

Tulips in Bloom

The weather in Milwaukee was (briefly) exquisite this week.  Temperatures soared into the low 60’s, the breezes indicated Spring was finally here with their combination of warmth and lakeside coolness, and the sun was brightly shining.  Perfection.  The daffodils and tulips are in full bloom on, what feels like, every city block.  In front of the Pfister’s Wisconsin Avenue entrance, tall, brightly colored pink and yellow tulips are ringed in the low, black, decorative iron that mark the corners of the sidewalk garden boxes.  All of this belied the clouds that were moving in, ever so slowly, threatening rain.

It is 4pm inside the hotel and the Pfister’s current artist-in-residence, Shelby Keefe, is about to give a tour* of the Victorian art collection that adorns the public spaces.  Starting from her studio, located just off the lobby, between the Pfister Cafe and Mason Street Grill, Shelby grabs the two tools of her tour: a slim paperback guide featuring a gilded frame on the cover and the words ‘The Pfister Art Collection,’ and a heavy-duty silver flashlight.

She starts off, right away, talking about how she dug out an old art history textbook from college in order to gain a refreshed perspective on the various styles and artists on display.  One of the first things Shelby shares is her realization that while the majority of the art collected by Charles Pfister comes from the 19th century and is mostly from the classical romanticists, the realists and a fair number from the Barbizon, Millet schools – the impressionists were very active in those same years.  By her own description, she is a “contemporary impressionistic painter,” and also a fan of much of the art being produced today that is very different from her own.  “A reminder,” she says, “that it’s always been true that artists are not all doing the same thing at the same time.”

Popping from one painting to another, Shelby wields her flashlight like an enormous lecturer’s pointer, illuminating specific parts of paintings which beg her emphasis: the shell being held up to a beautiful woman’s ear in Lenoir’s The Shell (about which a young girl once inquired “Is she holding a cell phone?”); the flirtatious gentleman in L’Eternelle Pomme d’Eve, which hangs over the check-in desk, by Georges Achille-Fould; the gauzy lace dripping from the dress sleeves of Adolphe Piot’s The Rose; how the dress on Clairin’s Dancer practically undulates (“I love how he lets the paint do the work”); or, the ‘Roma’ notation beneath a painter’s signature indicating he had studied in Italy (something which 19th-century painters would tout as a sign of their artistic respectability).

It’s remarkable what else is illuminated in this adjustable circle of light.  A painting by Eugene Fromentin, a Frenchman who painted in the “spirit and manner” of the Dutch, simply titled The Cows, instantly springs to the beautiful russet, deep green, and yellow shades of a field and stream on a perfect fall day.  The colors are muted in the mood-lighting, but they appear like magic when lit up directly.  The same thing happens with Louis Aston Knight’s gorgeous The Poppy Field, Daniel Ridgway Knight’s (no relation) The Rose Garden, and most spectacularly, Chianti by E. Giachi.  This last one, features a serving woman being charmed by, or perhaps doing the charming of, a young gentleman with splendid white, floppy hat while two portly men doze drunkenly in the background. A large cask is set off to the right, a stone wall straw litters the ground where thatch-bottomed jugs are spread.  It may not sound like a particularly colorful tableau, but the detail is astoundingly vibrant: golden threads, teal tights, pale green sheen on a wooden bench – each detail simply glows.

The tour wound its way to the seventh floor, where the ballrooms are located.  A wedding and a school’s anniversary gala were both set and the halls were beginning to swell with guests.  A young lady in layers of elegant, chiffon powder blue ruffles eased by, followed soon after by a suited man carrying a little blond girl wearing a sateen dress in bright fuchsia while groomsmen swam together, upstream, in their rose-red ties.  Between the art and the events, every shade of every color of the rainbow was painted on the air tonight.

Later, a wander up to the aptly-colorfully-named Blu for a listen to Dr. Hollander’s delightful and charming piano playing results in a glass of the evening’s featured red wine: a velvety soft Domaine du Sac from nearby Wollersheim Winery.  Two ladies sit at one of the window-side tables, admiring the view, pointing out landmarks, and sipping from aquamarine cocktails.  Suddenly, they pull out cameras and wildly gesture from one side of the vista to the other.  The rain had cleared some time ago, though the clouds had rendered the horizon a steel-grey, and a rainbow had appeared, stretching across the sky.

*Tours of the Pfister’s Victorian art collection are given by Shelby Keefe on Fridays and Saturdays, from 4 to 5pm.

(re)Writing History

“No single man makes history. History cannot be seen,
just as one cannot see grass growing.”

Iced Tea and Writing
Iced Tea and Writing

When I told a writer friend of mine about this unique position, she launched into an interesting bit of historical trivia she had learned while living in Russia.  In the old hotels there, during the Soviet era, one would often find a little old lady sitting in the lobby, taking notes on all the comings and goings.  Essentially, she was hired by the government as a spy.  Now, here I am, decades later, chosen to sit in the lobby of an old hotel and take notes on the comings and goings, here to make conversation with strangers and write about them.  Except, this time, it’s with complete transparency and artistic license.  The purpose is not to affect history, but to record histories: personal histories as they occur in the here and now.

When Julie Ferris, the outgoing and first-ever Narrator, and I got together this week to “pass the pen,” we sat in the lobby bar, surrounded by history.  The marble tiles that are inlaid in front of the grand fireplace were reassembled there during the hotel’s restoration, pieced together from the original 1893 floors.  The fireplace itself was one of the first indoor gas fireplaces in the country; a grand beast of a thing whose opening is flanked by two cherubs and inset with a scene from Ancient Rome of a woman driving a chariot drawn by four prancing horses.  Surrounded by all this, Julie noted the Pfister’s desire to continue its preservation of history, bringing home the point: Even as we are present, we are already passing into history.

Certainly, the Pfister Hotel stands as a historic landmark, and I intend to unearth many of its stories and share them here with you over the next six months.  However, the fact that the hotel has stood here for enough years (118) to have earned its elite status means that histories have been written here for quite a long time.  A few years ago, as part of an anniversary celebration, the Pfister began a program to find and preserve some of those personal histories.  ‘Memories and Moments‘ is a place where you can share your own stories and memories, particularly since there was no Pfister Narrator hanging around the lobby to write it for you.  Or you can drop me a line here and I can help you tell your story.

At the same time as some of you are reflecting and remembering, new stories are being written with each footstep tread upon the old marble floors, up the wide staircase, past the Victorian paintings, next to stone walls – and I will be here to find them, write them, and share them.

Whether you are sharing an experience that happened long ago, or only yesterday, though you may not see it, you are making history.

Quote source: Boris Pasternak, author of Doctor Zhivago