There is a certain kind of restaurant that is, in my mind, unique to WI. Inevitably it is named after the owners, by first names such as Lena and Ole’s or by surname, The Nyborg Family Restaurant. The décor always represents a compromise, the cheapest building materials possible to satisfy the man, with poorly executed feminine touches to give the woman a sense of stylish ownership.
Hello powder blue geese.
The faded, somewhat dirty wallpaper has dried flowers on it. The plywood moulding is battered by abuse from the metal chairs that are stacked when the gray indoor/outdoor carpet is being vacuumed at the end of the day. At the non-computerized cash register there is a cardboard cut out with holes for quarters you can donate to the Lion’s Club.
I recently ate at such a place in Winneconne, WI, near the Wolf River which is part of the Fox River system near Oshkosh and Green Bay. Houses there are unpretentious, with manicured lawns and firm foundations. The people are well fed having never met a carb they didn’t savor. I had an open faced pork sandwich with real mashed potatoes. The waitress gave me a, “okay-Mr.-Fancy-Pants,” look when I asked for the gravy on the side. My chicken soup was made from scratch, but the dressing for my small salad came in a plastic bottle with a grocery store sticker on it.
The homemade desserts on the counter went unordered by me for I no longer indulge. There was however a chubby boy reading a comic book enjoying a piece of rhubarb pie. I can only assume his name was Greg.
Hello powder blue geese.
The faded, somewhat dirty wallpaper has dried flowers on it. The plywood moulding is battered by abuse from the metal chairs that are stacked when the gray indoor/outdoor carpet is being vacuumed at the end of the day. At the non-computerized cash register there is a cardboard cut out with holes for quarters you can donate to the Lion’s Club.
I recently ate at such a place in Winneconne, WI, near the Wolf River which is part of the Fox River system near Oshkosh and Green Bay. Houses there are unpretentious, with manicured lawns and firm foundations. The people are well fed having never met a carb they didn’t savor. I had an open faced pork sandwich with real mashed potatoes. The waitress gave me a, “okay-Mr.-Fancy-Pants,” look when I asked for the gravy on the side. My chicken soup was made from scratch, but the dressing for my small salad came in a plastic bottle with a grocery store sticker on it.
The homemade desserts on the counter went unordered by me for I no longer indulge. There was however a chubby boy reading a comic book enjoying a piece of rhubarb pie. I can only assume his name was Greg.
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