I grew up in a town of fewer than 20,000 people, surrounded by dairy farms, a real heartland sort of place in the heart of Wisconsin. The simple life: not quite Lake Wobegon, but close.
Back in high school, when homecoming or prom season rolled around, we wanted to impress our dates, which meant ironed shirts, ties that were (hopefully) not clip-ons, and suits we’d otherwise don for weddings and funerals. After delicately trying not to stab our dates with corsage pins under the squinting eyes of their fathers, we drove our parents’ cars to be initiated into hosting—and paying for—a fancy dinner. In a town of greasy spoons and fast food, we had one choice: the Casa Loma, a supper club.
