The other day we visited the shrine. You don’t skip the Vatican if you go to Rome, do you? If you come here, you have to go. In fact, before you get off the plane in Milwaukee they ask you what day you will be visiting… and they hold you to it.
“May I book the reservation for your tour?”
“Uh, OK, I guess.” I looked at the principal helplessly.
He rolled his eyes.
So Friday it was. 2:45. It turns out it was the day of the enshrinement for those who have stepped on this hallowed ground. TV cameras. Hundreds of round, meticulously set tables with white linen. Celebrities with really thick necks…here, in the home of Cheeseheads and bratwurst and frozen tundra.
This is the house that Lombardi built. And St. Brett. But I’m sick of him so we’ll just skip right over that one.
There are not one but two pro shops. One for the glory days of yesteryear, the days of Nitschke, Starr, Horning and Taylor. Black and white photos of toothless behemoths scoring touchdowns in blizzard conditions, a diminutive man in a fedora and an overcoat.
One for the present. A shrine to he who shall not be named.
At Curley’s pub (named after Curley Lambeau, the holy father of Cheeseheads) everything includes cheese. There is no such question as Would you like cheese on that?, it’s just included free of charge. Curley’s pub fries, homemade chips with melted cheese and bacon, parmesian mashed potatoes, and of course the standard found on every menu throughout the state, deep-fried cheese curds. Don’t get me wrong. I like cheese as much the next guy. But puuleeeeszze.
Anyway, I prefer my cheese curds fresh. They squeak.