The salad was a reasonable re-creation of something I can make in my own kitchen, and often do. The toasted goat cheese, crisply breaded in crumbs and warm through the center, sat atop lightly dressed spring greens, the kind found in clear plastic containers in the organic produce section. The vinaigrette was savory yet pedestrian. I’d expect the same thing from a bottle of Newman’s Own.

At this point in my meal, kept company by my dirty appetizer and salad plates, I waited and waited and waited for my entrée to arrive. At last, the sole meunière, a traditionally simple and elegant dish of Dover sole sautéed and topped with a butter sauce made of capers and lemon, arrived after an eternity in restaurant time (about 30 minutes after the salad). The chef somehow managed to serve it both charred and raw, a feat a more talented chef couldn’t do on purpose. The capers flecked the sauce like moldy Tic Tacs dropped on the floor, random and grim, lolling about in an underreduced liquid, sharp with uncooked alcohol. When I found a seemingly properly cooked bite, the fish tasted of cindery hate and cheap wine.

After I choked down as much dinner as possible, there was only one way to end the meal with my dignity (and intestines) intact. I requested the check and left the cash on the table rather than wait another interminable second for a waiter working toward the world record in slow service.

Named after a beloved grandmother (cloyingly noted on the menu), Luella’s failed to conjure images of a sweet grandma, passing down hallowed recipes with kindness and love. Instead, I was left with the picture of a wizened wicked stepmother bringing these dishes to a family reunion, still trying to off her beautiful stepdaughter.

You’ve been warned.

“Brutal” did not sufficiently describe the review’s vitriol. Lou took a long swig from her nearly empty pint, the faintly fruity liquid cooling the burning tears. A naked hand clung firmly to the worn glass. Wavy, rumpled brown hair half covered her face; her simple white T-shirt, wrinkled and stained, matched her disheveled hair. Her cheeks glowed red from staring down the shit storm known as her life (and maybe from the drinks). Her shoulders and back slumped, bearing the weight of an invisible globe. She’d hoped for a review, knowing Luella’s food and service were impeccable. It was just her luck Wodyski had picked her one off day to visit the restaurant.

When she’d arrived at work today, Sue had handed her the review and fifty dollars followed by a terse “I’ve got tonight.”

Lou had read the review as Sue watched her closely.

More than anything, she was embarrassed she hadn’t kept it together enough to work that night. Lou had shaken her head and said, “No. I can work, Sue. I’m not that pathetic. It’s one bad review.”

“I’m not saying this as an employee; I’m saying this as your best friend. You’ve earned a night off. I’ll join you after we close if you’re still standing.”

Having learned to listen to Sue’s good advice, she caved and left for her favorite pub, sucking down pints of cider—the good stuff. Nice and dry, the kind you’d find in a good English pub with a long, wooden bar worn smooth from centuries of old men in tweed drinking their daily pints—not the sweet crap with the varmint on the label. Her fourth pint would soon need refilling, but her rage and humiliation had started to mellow. Jerry already had her keys with instructions to call her a cab. No use adding a DUI to the smoldering heap her life had become the last few days. Yep, she planned to numb the pain with a cider-based anesthesia.

• • • • •

Al shoved open the pub’s heavy wooden doors and strode through with the confident swagger of a World Cup champion returning to his hometown. He was ready for a celebratory drink. The food section’s Friday edition peeked out from under his arm; a review by A. W. Wodyski headlined “Eat at Your Own Risk” dominated the page.

He removed the black fleece jacket he’d purchased at the bleak downtown mall. It was really too warm outside, quite different from how the day started. His shoes still squished a bit from the torrential downpours earlier. Faint red marks on his arm were the only evidence of the hail and icy rain he walked to work in. By noon, the sun shone. Milwaukee weather needed some form of meteorological Prozac. He didn’t mind the damp, chilly weather of London because at least it was consistent. The unexpected shifts in temperature and precipitation caused by the lake drove him mental, but it was Friday and his most scathing review to date had just come out. Al looked down the bar for an open stool and couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face. He walked forward to join the one person in Milwaukee he’d hoped he would see again.

“Oi! Miss Coconut Cake,” he said as he tucked his paper into his coat pocket.

She turned to look at Al, a tattered paper on the counter in front of her. He pasted what he hoped was a pleasant smile on his face. She wavered a little on her bar stool and squinted her eyes at him. Recognition lit on her face.

“Oh, you. Don’t call me that.” Lou turned back to her pint and shoved the paper into her purse as Al slid onto the stool next to her.

The barman walked over as soon as Al sat down.

“What can I get you?”

“I’ll have what the lady’s having,” Al said. The barman went off to pour him a pint of whatever filled her glass.

“Bad day?”

“Youse could say that.”

Miss Coconut Cake watched the bubbles rise in her drink, an adorable hiccup escaping her lips.

Al grabbed the pint the barman set in front of him and took a sip, then looked at her with surprise.

“Cider? Quite good cider. In Milwaukee? I thought this was the land of malty goodness.”

Annoyed, she scowled. “Yes, you’re drinking really good cider . . . in Milwaukee. Don’t be too shocked. We’re more than just beer and cheese.”

“Right, I hear the sausages are quite good, too.” Al gave a little smirk. “You from here?”

“Born ’n’ raised. You?”

“Just passing through.”

She raised her eyebrow, prompting for more details. Al leaned toward her.

“Work. I have to prove myself here first.”

“What do you do?”

Al paused, looked at the two college guys walking through the door, each wearing the local uniform of plaid shirt, jeans, and worn baseball cap.

He took a deep breath and said, “Write.”

Al waited for the inevitable follow-up question, but Lou was distracted with her fresh pint from Jerry.

“Oh . . . well, you should give it a chance. It’s wonderful here—especially summer.”

“You mean it gets warmer? Brilliant.” Al breathed a sigh of relief. She rolled her eyes and took a long drink of the cider. He normally avoided discussing work but decided to press his luck.

“So, what do you do?”

“No work talk.”

“That bad?”

“Worse. Oh, so much worse.”

Al nodded. He could avoid discussing jobs.

She took another long gulp.

“Are you going to be able to walk out of here?” Al asked.

“Not if Jerry fulfills his promise. He’s under strict instructions to serve me till I need to be rolled out the door.” She gave a saucy wink to Jerry.

“That’s your last one if you’re going to start flirtin’ with me,” Jerry said as he washed glasses behind the bar.

“So . . . what’s so wonderful about your little city?” Al asked.

“Everything.” Her eyes stared at the Irish flag hanging on the wall. “Summer’s full of festivals, ball games, grilling. In winter you stay cozy when the snow falls . . .” She shook her head to clear the fog and took a deep breath. “Fall walks through crunchy leaves. The spring thaw, everything grows. Yummy restaurants. Lotsa stuff to do for fun. Just go out and do.”

Al looked at her from the corner of his eye, a smile on his lips. “I’m new in town. It’d be nice to have someone to show me all these treasures.”