Did Somebody Call for a Plumber? – Monday, August 20, 2012

Monday morning Ari and I set out on the seven-hour drive from St. Louis to Milwaukee.  Anticipating beers and brats in Wisconsin -- and still smelling of BBQ sauce -- we decided to take a break from heavy eating and stopped at Destihl, a sit-down café along the way.  I ordered a soup and salad combo.  Ari ordered an Asian chicken salad.  The food did not deserve photos.  Walking out, Ari and I commended ourselves for avoiding gluttony.  But my self-control was short-lived.  About to get in the car, we spotted a Coldstone Creamery.  Six minutes later we were back on the road with my Dark Passenger: sweet cream ice cream, creamy peanut butter, peanut butter cups, chocolate shavings, and fudge.

We got to the ballpark at 6:30 for a 7:05 game.  Our first impression of the Miller Park experience was a positive one.  While walking from the parking lot to the stadium we were greeted by two female Brewers fans.  They spotted Ari’s (Reigning NFL MVP) Aaron Rodgers jersey and excitedly offered us the last of their plastic syringes filled with an unidentified blue alcohol.  We each had our own bad puns: I exclaimed, “I’ll take the plunge!” while Ari quipped, “Just what the doctor ordered!!”   

We had a great time at the game.  Five years after opening, Miller Park still looks new.  It has a clean, bright façade.  The scoreboard is large and easy to read.  The field isn’t inundated with corporate logos. Best of all, the Brewers really try to create a fun fan experience.  Before you reach your seats, you can take photos next to different kinds of sausage.  You can fire a fastball while a radar gun clocks your speed.  You can simulate a batter’s dash to first base; as you run 90 feet, a cardboard ballplayer moves alongside you, so you know whether you’re faster than a Brewer [Ari’s Note: Now that Prince Fielder is gone, you’re probably not].  There's even a slide in the outfield for mascot Bernie the Brewer.  With every homerun, Bernie goes down the chute.  The stadium feels more like a playground than any other stadium we’ve visited. 

I'm the only one without a number.

On the field, there is plenty of entertainment, especially between innings.  The highlight is the sausage race.  In the third inning, the jumbotron shows the sausages warming up for the race.  Chorizo does pushups.  Bratwurst stretches his/her/its legs.  After the sixth inning, the giant sausages take the field.  Brewer employees usually wear the costumes.  Each sausage has a name.  Bratwurst is Brett Werst.  Polish is Stosh.  Italian is Guido.  Hot Dog is Frankie Furter.  Chorizo is Cinco.  (I hate when sausages get stereotyped.)  Fans ready their cameras.  The scoreboard shows the season standings (Chorizo currently leads the pack).  And then they’re off!  Five encased meats start along the third base line, round home, and sprint-wobble toward the finish line along right field.  We had a great view.  In fact, we were so close to the finish line that in his effort to high-five the victorious Hot Dog, Ari elbowed the Bratwurst in his face/upper bun.  ESPN reports that Bratwurst is listed as day-to-day.  Ari claims it was unintentional.  I was there.  This was no accident.

Hot Dog ran the entire race with a smile.

Crossing the finish line behind the others, Bratwurst has no idea Ari is about to add injury to insult.

We took our seats just before first pitch.  [Ari’s Note: We use “our seats” liberally.  We have pretty much orchestrated the ticket situation the same way in each city.  We buy cheap tickets on StubHub to enter the stadium.  Once inside we evade ushers until we are adequately close to home plate.  Milwaukee has the honor of cheapest tickets purchased at 45 cents per ticket.  You read that correctly.]  It was only once we sat that Ari realized how tired he was.  He had driven the entire 373 miles that day.  I offered to get Ari something.  [Ari’s Note: I figured he would return with an iced coffee or a caffeinated soda.  Nope.]  Ten minutes later I returned with a gigantic bag of cheese and caramel kettle corn and three sausages.  In the Bernstein version of the Brat Race, Italian lapped both Classic and Chorizo. The brats were deserving of photos.

From left to right: Ari, chorizo.  Not pictured: soup and salad combo.

Between the snacks and distractions, there was also a baseball game going on.  The lowly Milwaukee Brewers hosted the adorably pathetic Chicago Cubs.  With the two cities located just 90 miles apart, about 40 percent of fans were rooting for the Cubbies.  The Lovable Losers led early but the Brew Crew stormed back, winning 9-5 on the strength of an eight-run fifth inning.

With the home team squarely ahead, we left in the eighth inning.  We needed to get to Sobelman’s before last call.  It’s a bar known for exceptional burgers.  While there, we stumbled onto some exceptional people.  The names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent:

•     Erin was seated next to us at the bar.  She is in her mid-fifties.  She runs triathlons.  Her best time is 1:20.  I have no idea if that’s good.  Erin lives in Tampa, Florida, but spends her summers in the Milwaukee home her father left to her.
•     Freddy was seated next to Erin.  He is a plumber in Milwaukee.  He refers to himself as “Freddy the Plumber.”  He is a good-looking guy in his late forties.  He was approximately thirteen sheets to the wind. 
•     Peggy was the bartender.  She’s in her fifties.  If you were typecasting her for a movie, she would play the cafeteria lady who chain-smokes after serving Sloppy Joe’s.  [Ari’s Note: I’m 20% sure Peggy played Lunch Lady Doris in Billy Madison.]  Vegas would set the over-under on her number of husbands at two. 

Peggy poured Ari a $2 Miller Lite and I had a $3 Spotted Cow, a popular local beer.  We made small talk with Erin and Freddy.  They were friendly drunks.  I asked how they were getting home.  “Peggy is giving us a ride,” Erin slurred. 

“I don’t know about that,” Ari said, pointing to Peggy.  Peggy was pouring herself a beer. 

“Will you drive us home?” Erin asked. 

“Sure,” Peggy said.

“Let’s do shots!” John said.  Peggy poured three shots—one for Erin, one for Freddy, one for herself.

Peggy brought us some beers on the house—Sprecher, another local.   I asked, “You’re not really driving them home, are you?”

“Why not?  They’re on my way.”  

Peggy handed us menus and described the burger options.  The words “cheese” and “bacon” were said many times.  “Cardiac” also might have made an appearance.  Ari got the Jalapeno Burger—cheddar cheese and fried jalapenos.  I got the Sobelman—three kinds of cheese, fried onions, fried jalapenos, bacon.  At least at it wasn’t the most unhealthy option.  That would be the Wisco Burger.  The Wisco included a beef patty, a bratwurst patty, bacon, cheese, and a three-year decrease in one’s life expectancy.

The food lived up to the hype.  The meat was cooked perfectly.  The bun was soft but sturdy.  The cheese must have come from happy cows.  The Ari assigned his burger “honorable mention” on his all-time list of best burgers.  The Sobelman burger qualified for the prestigious, “Top Ten Burgers of My Life.”  The fries were excellent, too.

As we tore into the burgers, Erin started telling us about triathlons.  Most interesting fact: Swimming used to be the final event but that changed because too many people were drowning from exhaustion.  Least interesting fact: Everything else.  I quickly tired of the triathlon trivia and cut to the chase.  “What’s your relationship with Freddy the Plumber?” I asked.  “Great question!” Ari shouted.

 

“It’s complicated,” Erin said.  By “complicated,” she meant “scandalous.”  During the school year, Erin teaches fourth grade in Tampa, where she lives with her husband and son.  During the summer, Erin hangs out in Milwaukee, where she lives with Freddy the Plumber.  Obviously, this became the only topic of our conversation.  “Does your husband know about the Plumber?” I asked.  (She’s not sure.)  “Does your husband have his own Plumber?” Ari asked.  (She doesn’t care.)  “Do you charge him rent?” I asked.  (“He does other things around the house.”)  We asked several questions that involved plumber puns, none of which are fit to print.  Erin was a good sport about it, but eventually she grew suspicious from all of our questions.  “Did my husband send you here to check up on me?”  We assured her that we were not private investigators.  [Ari’s Note: It was an honest mistake; federal deputies probably look a lot like private investigators.] 

Peggy brought us Patron shots.  She took a shot with us.  She is the world’s best bartender.  [Ari’s Note: And the world’s worst designated driver.] 

Cheers with Peggy

Once we convinced Erin that we were not PIs, she became really friendly.  Too friendly.  Plumber Friendly.  “Let me buy you guys a drink,” she purred.  Ari and I both the got the sense that more than a drink was being offered.  We got the hell out of there.  “I think she wanted to hold her own triathlon tonight,” Ari told me in the parking lot.  “I wasn’t ready to become Justin the Plumber,” I shivered.  We called it a night. 

Left to right: me, Ari, Freddy (behind Erin), Erin (faced blurred to protect identity), Peggy