TRACING America’s food history often requires a strong stomach, what with all the twists and turns.
Take, for instance, frozen custard. (If you haven’t had it, think ice cream, but better.)
It’s generally accepted that this frozen treat first appeared at Coney Island in 1919, just as the twenties were getting ready to roar. An appearance at the World’s Fair in Chicago 14 years later introduced the sweet stuff to the Midwest, where it quickly took hold. Soon, you could find it in places like St. Louis, Mo., home to the famous Ted Drewes on Route 66. And Wisconsin. Don’t forget Wisconsin.
Time passes. Eventually, custard fades from the New York stage, leaving the decadent summer treat almost exclusively the province of the center of the country. This is not surprising, particularly not in Wisconsin, where dairy is not only a way of life, it’s what’s for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and sometimes, if we’re talking cheese curds, it’s what’s in the fryer. (Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.)
Fast forward a few decades, and you have some guy named Danny Meyer. A Midwesterner, born and raised on Ted Drewes’ custard in St. Louis, he builds himself a little restaurant empire in New York that you may have heard of.
Then, just for fun, decides that it might be nice to open up a place in a Manhattan park that approximates the custard stands of his youth. Meyer opens up Shake Shack in Madison Square Park. People line up halfway to Battery Park. It’s official: Custard has made its triumphant entry into the Big Apple.
Re-entry, make that. While most New Yorkers at the time assume that they are indulging in something exotic and Midwestern, in fact, they are eating an upscale interpretation of something that’s famous in St. Louis but was actually invented across the river in Brooklyn. Isn’t life funny?
Tracing custard’s twisted path, it becomes clear why, for instance, when you ask a custard-maker in Wisconsin for their version of events as they pertain to history and custard, you get a lot of blank stares. After all, it’s been part of life in America’s Dairyland for so long. Nowhere else has it permeated the culture so completely — to the point where many people just assume it was invented here. Why bother worrying about where it all started when it doesn’t exist most other places?
Sure, when pressed, you’ll here various interpretations of custard’s beginnings — one maker might wonder if it didn’t start in Indiana (it may have come there from New York first, but it wasn’t invented there.) Some entertain the dreadful idea that Ted Drewes’ famous St. Louis stand may have preceded custard’s arrival here.
It was. In fact, when you sit down and do the math, it becomes clear that Wisconsin was kind of late to the party. Gilles’ Frozen Custard, a staple in far-western Milwaukee since 1938, is nearly a decade younger than Ted Drewes. The neon-lit Leon’s that inspired Arnold’s Drive-In in TV’s “Happy Days,” didn’t come on the scene until the 1940s.
That hardly matters, though. Nobody questions that Wisconsin, specifically Milwaukee, is the Custard Capital. The southeastern part of the state is dotted with classic custard stands, not to mention outlets of Wisconsin’s own Culver’s, a chain of custard and burger restaurants that was born in the central town of Sauk City in 1984.
(Culver’s, whose customers are served by an army of about 5,000 Wisconsin cows that give more than 100 million pounds of milk annually, can legitimately be referred to as the In-N-Out Burger of the Midwest. In fact, it could be argued that Culver’s, famous not only for their custard but also their buttery burgers topped with tangy Wisconsin cheddar, is in fact better than In-N-Out. But then again, their 400 restaurants are mostly in the Midwest for now, so the risk of that argument coming to the forefront anytime soon is minimal.)
Michael Dix grew up on a farm near Kenosha, Wisconsin, an old industrial town on Lake Michigan, about an hour north of Chicago. He is not a Culver’s fan, preferring his grandmother’s custard recipe. (Wisconsin is the sort of place where your grandmother has a custard recipe.) It’s a recipe he borrowed when, in 1986, he opened a stand in an abandoned Mobil gas station on Monroe Street in the state capital and #1 university town, Madison.
Madison, it turns out, was not really known for custard in those days; Dix has changed all that. Today, he and partner Perry McCourtney now look after a mini-chain of four custard and burger stands around town, all housed in repurposed gas stations.
I stopped by on a bright, sunny day, with a mission: To learn how custard is actually made. I’ve eaten my share, but never paid much attention to the process. After all, what more do you need to know that it’s good, and when done correctly, it’s basically free of junk?
Over baskets of fried cheese curds and fresh onion rings (plus, of course, the house custard), Dix and McCourtney run it all down for me.
Simply, custard contains eggs, which give it that silky, smooth look and feel. Most ice creams contain various other emulsifiers or stabilizers, none of which are preferable to good old egg yolks. Second, proper custard should avoid being, as the pros say, “overrun” with air. Ever pick up a tub of ice cream and wonder why it felt oddly light? Overrun. You’re paying good money for air.
Finally, butterfat. You can’t have good custard if you’re using powdered skim milk or some other cheap substitute for the real deal. At Michael’s, I learn that the best custard should include only include cream, fresh milk, sugar — never, ever corn syrup — and egg yolk (never any other stabilizers or emulsifiers, natural or no.) It should have very little overrun (air) and it should be served a little warmer than ice cream would be, simply because an all-natural recipe like this can be kind of hard to serve up when frozen. Michael’s serves theirs at 19 degrees, just before it starts to melt — as a result, it goes down almost like a milkshake.
Business, Dix says, appearing to mentally cross his fingers, is good.
“People trade down in a recession,” he points out.
“Everybody has $5,” McCourtney says. If they don’t, for custard this good, they ought to find it.
Later that week, I make the one-hour drive from Madison to Milwaukee, stopping by the sprawling Kopp’s Frozen Custard in the suburb of Glendale. On a weekend evening, or during any dinner hour in the summer, you’ll witness the kind of crowds you thought might have escaped by eschewing Shake Shack for the real deal out in a smaller town like this one. Not really. Even though Kopp’s has been a presence in the region since 1950, its popularity has yet to wane significantly. Today, there are three locations, and they’re often jammed to the rafters.
Inside the futuristic-looking store, which is tucked between busy Port Washington Road and Interstate 43, there are lines for burgers, there are lines for custard, there are places for waiting. A hive of people in white uniforms (and nifty-looking white hats) tends to the crowd. The custard’s okay — a little artificial-tasting — but the burgers are great.
Here, for a few bucks, you can get a cheeseburger topped with Nueske’s Bacon. (Nueske’s, of course, before it was a trendy brunch item on various California menus, was known simply to Wisconsinites as a place that made great bacon.)
There isn’t any indoor seating, so most people take their food to go, or sit outdoors on a property dotted with curious sculpture. Of particular interest is the line of 23, sober-looking white fiberglass cows that stare out from the back of the property — apparently, the Kopp family decided one day that what was missing from the parking lot of their Glendale location was a herd of fiberglass cows. In white. I skipped custard on this visit, mostly because when you’re in Milwaukee, there’s no reason to settle when you’re usually just down the road from your favorite — mine’s Leon’s; I simply can’t get past the classic drive-in look and feel, the oh-the-humanity scene in the gritty parking lot and the sinfully delicious butter pecan custard, prepared with utmost seriousness and served in a similar fashion.
Then again, some people’s loyalties lie elsewhere. I don’t know how people stay skinny here (some do, believe it or not), considering that there appears to be a custard stand in just about every neighborhood. Some are old-fashioned, some are slightly upscale and kind of hip. The week I was in town, I was informed of the imminent debut of NorthPoint Custard, a reincarnation of an old snack bar, down on Lake Michigan.
It was to be powered by Milwaukee’s Bartolotta Restaurant Group. To put things in context, would be a lot like, say, Danny Meyer opening a custard stand in the middle of a popular park in New York City. Oh wait.
For more information about travel to Wisconsin, visit travelwisconsin.com
SWEET SPOTS
Top stops for Wisconsin’s favorite summer treat
1) NorthPoint Custard
Milwaukee
When a colorful family that includes James Beard Award-winning chef Paul Bartolotta (of Bartolotta, Las Vegas) opens a custard stand, you kind of have to make it your first stop. We weren’t disappointed — a completely natural taste and sublimely smooth product beat Shake Shack by a mile. For best results, use this as a reward after a stroll along Lake Michigan (2400 Lincoln Memorial Dr., [414] 727-4886).
2) Michael’s Frozen Custard
Madison
One of the purest-tasting custards you’ll find anywhere, this stuff is all class. Owners Michael Dix and Perry McCourtney like to point out that they sample the custard every day, and still manage to keep fit. Custard: The new health food? They even make a canine-friendly custard for your doggie (locations at
ilovemichaels.com
)
3) Sibby’s O-Zone
Viroqua
In a public market hall at the heart of Wisconsin’s fascinating Driftless region, a local organic custard maker operates this cheerful cafe. The product is branded as ice cream in order to sell it out of state, but there’s no mistaking the pure taste. Currently on the shelves at various Whole Foods in the Midwest (213 S. Main St., [608] 637-3202).
4) Leon’s
Milwaukee
It’s not about nostalgia or Americana-worship, although people probably wouldn’t stop coming to this classic drive-in (with one of the greatest remaining neon signage programs in the country) if the custard suddenly started to slip in quality. Thankfully, things at this South Milwaukee institution, around since 1940, remain about as close to perfect as you’ll find (3131 S. 27th St., [414] 383-1784).