Odd Duck's small dining room is exactly what Kyle wants more of.
Photo by Adam Ryan Morris
For years on my peripatetic trips to New York, I have savored the unending number of charming hole-in-the-wall restaurants, bars and cafés that the city has to offer. And I have silently wondered why Milwaukee, a solid mid-tier city, does not have more similarly small and intelligently inventive spaces. They are common in America’s metropolises, littered like archipelagos across urban neighborhoods. But they are not so scarce in smaller cities that I am willing to accept urban density as an explanation for why our city does not have more of them. Milwaukee has several incomparable selections, but the general paucity is a shameful representation of the superlative cooking talent in this town. Is it that too few yearn, as the saying goes, to hang out their own shingle?
In major cities, real estate is at a premium, and necessity is the mother of invention. I have seen spaces the size of Historic Third Ward condo walk-in closets fashioned into bistros. Milwaukee offers a multitude of small, promising spaces for practically nothing. Are there not scads of would-be restaurateurs who could scratch together the shekels it would take to outfit the vacancies and give us authentic little places in which to dine? I have no concept of what a restaurant business plan might look like, nor the overhead needed to open even the smallest of doors. I know that my friends at Odd Duck said they saved for 12 years before opening their anomalistic Bay View success. Still, I can’t satisfy the itch that more cramped – but creative – culinary spaces ought to be happening in our city and would raise the bar in a positive way. I think there are magic beans everywhere, and no need for cows to be traded in.
These tight little spots I love to sup at range from polished to hodge-podge; however, they often share common threads. Snug square footage is certainly part of the story, but there is more to it. Most of these independent gems have a chef as either owner or business partner, which means the chef and team are vested in every aspect of the place. From the dishes (you eat) to the dishes (you eat off of). From the fingernails pressed into the produce to check its freshness to the chalk beneath them after writing that day’s specials board. They are the restaurant. Their pulses are the same.
On the dining side, there is the near-forced metaphysical relationship you have with the other diners. The experience is cozy and compressed but not overwrought; these establishments offer us warm, engaging culinary cloisters of which we become a part of for the duration of dinner. The tone and tenor of the dining room, from the symphony of kitchen sounds to the conversation of a nearby couple, become a convivial soundtrack to your meal.
I am charmed by and proud of Milwaukee’s La Merenda, Sanford, c. 1880, Industri Café, Odd Duck, Braise and even Lake Park Bistro. We’ve got dozens that are the right weight for catch and release, but what we’re missing are the hundreds of minnows in our dining scene that are present in other cities. They serve as incubators for culinary talent and as an edifying refuge from bigger kitchens. They are dress rehearsals for something greater, culling the culinary entrepreneurs who are in love with the idea of having a restaurant but need to live it. So here is my call to action for the New Year, my wish for our city’s dynamic, punching-above-its-own-weight dining scene: Let’s have more of them.
I want more like The Social, late of Walker’s Point, before it expanded and went the way of the buffalo. More of the now long-late Di Salvo’s on Webster Avenue, where the Italian mother was sautéing and marinating for the day’s menu in the basement up until the day they knocked through the wall to expand. More like Three Brothers, with its small table lamps, sacrosanct family recipes, and the unyielding presence of an unused bar running the length of the entire restaurant, silently telling the story of a place repurposed for a better, more grand existence.
I want more like The Noble, with its earnest hit-or-miss menu and self-possessed décor, Victorian through mid-century. Any more thought and The Noble would veer into self-righteous hipsterville; any less and the friendly glow of the place would be gone. More wine bars like Indulge Wine, where you can get your proverbial Boy Scout badge in oenology without having your passport stamped to enter the nation of Snob.
I want more like Pastiche and Café Centro, with their honest and satisfyingly wrought brands of European fare. More like Chez Jacques’ in its first location: wry, intimate, small menued and bereft of anything more than simple French food.
I want more like Crazy Water, where the heat of the open corner kitchen greets you with your first step in the door, whether it is July or January. More like Pasta Tree, when it was just one shotgun room, with a crowded host stand five feet in from the door, and elegantly dressed diners forced to scoot down the length of the sofa they would be sharing with strangers for the course of dinner.
I want to mix more closely with the people of my city – break bread and have other people’s crumbs share my space. I want to know the abbreviated menus intimately, because they surround me at every table. I want more places where just two steps in, and you are already in the dining room. You are in another world, you are in a moment, you are in a place that you have to share in all the right ways.