Midwest Memo
Somewhat recommended
by Alan Shultz

A new client from out-oftown phoned me the other night. He was tooling around the city with the future in-laws and now everyone was hungry.

"We're all starved," Ray shouted into the speaker phone, "but we're divided between fish and steak. Where should we go?"

Like deer in the headlights, I froze.

First, I had no clue where to suggest they dine. It was 6:30 p.m. on a Saturday night and the to be long and grueling anywhere good. But I had to tell him something because he was tapping his "connection" in front of "her folks" and no answer was not an option.

Sweat beaded up on my forehead as I rummaged around for eyeglasses and yellow pages and started searching for numbers.

It was a no-win situation. I couldn't really quiz him on price range in front of Ma and Pa Kettle. Who was treating? What did they consider expensive? If I guessed wrong, well you get the picture.

I finally came up with a half-hearted suggestion and sent them on their way. The rest of the evening I spent wondering why I had picked up the phone. The following morning I checked the newspaper to see if any familiar sounding restaurants had been raided by the health department the previous night. Recommendations are not for the faint of heart. "Your dry cleaner lost my suit." "Your electrician never finished."

"Your mechanic needs a refresher course."

In lieu of a thank you note, the above little missives are what I normally receive when someone asks me for a reference or a recommendation.

And it seems like I never learn. Butchers, barbers and bakers, I share them all.

And yet, sometimes it's really quite innocent.

Many moons ago my sons and I belonged to an Indian Guides group run by the YMCA. There were about 20 of us in this particular father/son branch. We met every third week or so at a host house for a craft activity or to play games. Every season we went on an overnight trip at some fairly primitive YMCA camp off in the woods. The food was pretty predictable, the bugs were usually huge and the cabins always qualified for the roughing it category.

One fall season a dad with a bad back in our group happened upon a good deal at a

resort up in Lake Geneva, Wisc. So instead of the YMCA camp, comfy mattresses, cable TV and we headed off to comfy mattresses, cable TV and room service. Or so we thought.

It turned out that the once popular place had since seen better days. The pool was drained, the rooms were grungy and the food was terrible. Unrest seized the group. Come evening, it was decided we would eat dinner elsewhere. In an offhand manner I mentioned that there was good pizza in town.

Now gentle reader, truly, I had no business mentioning anything about "pizza in town." The pizza place I was referring to was somewhere my wife and I had gone to onceonly once, and that was on our honeymoon. At that moment in time my reference point was 12 years back. That's 1.2 decades in the past!

Although I made my "pizza in town" reference without thinking twice about it, I focused in more on that thought when we got the cars lined up to head off to dinner. That's when I first learned we were going to "the Shultz family's favorite pizza place in Lake Geneva."

Oh my.

Somehow that dark night I found a pizza place that approximated the blur in my memory. Although the place was absolutely deserted, the pizza was terrific and the husband and wife owners doted over the little Indian Guides as if they were their own.

So I guess I'll never learn to just keep still when folks come asking.

Now that I think about it, I should probably let my new client Ray in on the best pizza in Lake Geneva.