MADISON, Wisc. — The pleasure principle of the trip is thus: I watch my dollars and sense on the first few days in each city, then I treat myself to something special on the last night in town.

And tonight, for my swan song in Madison, between Lakes Monona and Mendota — I can almost remember which one is which at this point — I spent my splurge evening binging on chicken tenders and trying not to get the meat sweats.

But I left with a powerful story about Madison’s struggle and redemption, meat sweats notwithstanding.

On the northwest corner of Frances and University, you’ll find The Vintage, a kitschy little pub that feels like it fell out of an oversized cocktail bar matchbook. Most of the wall decor is stuff like conventionally “tittilating” burlesque art and print ads. When you walk in the front door, there’s a traditional rail-style bar on the left, and a sit-down diner vibe on the right. I turned left and saddled up so I could see the main TV (when you’re in a state with a baseball franchise, root-root-root for the home team — and I was a beer-sipping Brewers fan tonight).

But what drew me in to The Vintage was neither the ambiance nor the sports coverage. My potentially saavy, definitely persnickety habit of Googling everything informed me that Monday night’s special is “$5 unlimited Rip-Rip-Chicken thighs.”

Say no more. I’m there.

A friendly, short-haired, bartender in a brown T-shirt named Simon who could have been mistaken for Bob Belcher’s cousin took my order. I asked to “get in on that Rip-Rip,” like a complete doofus, and that it was my first time here — whatever IPA he likes best. He gave me the Mesosaur, which is Vintage’s American IPA with mosaic hops and tropical notes. I took my chicken with honey barbecue and ranch dipping sauces, and a glass of ice water, please.

Simon asked what brought me into town, which seems to be the Captain Obvious golden-standard question for bartenders with non-resident customers. I told him briefly about my road trip, that I was just coming from Madison, but heading to Evanston, Ill., tomorrow, and that I hoped to be home for my birthday around July 11.

As a matter of fact, Simon’s birthday is July 8 — “hey, happy birthday man” [handshake] — and he was planning on doing some traveling himself. He and his wife have plans to stay in a $40/night cabin later this week at Port Wing, Wisc., about 20 miles south of Wisconsin’s northwest point.

Simon told me that he “wanted to see a bear.” He’s never seen a bear before, and figured it’s about time.

“My whole life, I’ve been told they’re real, and everywhere up here. But I’ve never seen one with my own eyes. That would be a fun treat.”

Whatever floats your boat man. I told him to be safe and all, and Simon said he’s already been in the habit of making sure all of his trash is put away securely.

“Hey you, you look bored,” Simon told a table server standing idly by the soda fountain. “You wanna go home at 8?” The server nodded.

It was a quiet, summer-break Monday in middle Madison, and The Vintage was pretty wide-open and placid. It was me, a guy with thick glasses in the corner who kept making awkward fat jokes, and a table of college kids having a quiet conversation in the diner portion on the right. Simon’s night was looking pretty well over, and he opened up to chat with me as I gorged myself on fried meat.

Oh, — the chicken tenders. Yes, yes, I mentioned those some time back. Pardon me.

With a name like “Rip-Rip Chicken,” I expected something exotic or fancy. Maybe something with a dynamic pull-apart structure. A fun, gimmicky meat product to write home about.

Nah, just regular chicken tenders: The sort you’d find for $11.50 at a concert, or some restaurant with red plastic baskets and a waitress named Sherry. Crunchy and peppered, but corrugated enough to scoop a backhoe’s worth of sauce. They were satisfying, though.

I got my honey barbecue, and I got my ranch, and a free side of seasoned waffle fries came along for the ride (only available on the first Rip-Rip She-Bang, I do regret). The IPA was strong, and bitter, and I was a happy boy: Nothing exceptional, but basic stuff done right.

I marched through the first handful of chicken strips and their criss-cross spud-buddies, and contently ordered another batch from Simon.

Oh — Simon. Yes yes, I mentioned him some time back. Pardon me.

Simon said it felt good to think he would be on the road again soon, just anywhere but home and the routine that comes with an in-person job like tending the ol’ watering hole. This week’s trip will be his first break since the COVID-19 pandemic and everything that came with it made life hell for The Vintage — they closed hours before the usual windfall of Saint Patrick’s Day 2020, and just now re-opened their doors about six weeks ago. They were fortunate enough to get a PPP loan, and they tried the pickup/takeout structure for a bit during the first few months of isolation, but it makes natural sense that folks weren’t necessarily ordering a second, gluttonous plate of chicken tenders and two pints of beer to quietly enjoy in their apartments for dinner during a spendthrift era.

But now The Vintage is back in business, and I was glad to press my oily face into more chicken (and conversation).

In fact, Simon’s wife is a local nurse. She’s concerned about the Delta variant of COVID, but Simon doesn’t know how exactly to feel about that because the last 16 months have been consistently inconsistent: whatever happens is larger than him, and he’s going to act accordingly. He’s vaccinated and waiting with baited breath.

That said, Simon takes COVID seriously because he got it firsthand. In addition to being at the last Milwaukee Bucks game before the pandemic shut down sports events with a live audience, he was out drinking with buddies a few days before the night everything shut down nationwide.

“I only had two Miller Lites,” Simon said. “And I was there there shortest of all my friends. I had to get to bed. Little did I know I would be there for a few days.”

But as for now, inoculated and optimistic, Simon’s making the best decisions he can: He’s going to work with a smile as folks come in to cheer on the Bucks in the playoffs, he’s doing his best to return The Vintage to its former status, and he’s trying to see his oldest child off to college. There’s a big family debate as to whether it’s time to drain the pool that came with the house. It was an unexpected bonus treat when they bought the place years and years ago — it was an unexpected, added bonus, and 150 people came to Simon’s first pool party — but the interest between relatives and neighbors alike has been dwindling.

“I spent $1,000 last year on food and maybe 40 people came,” Simon said. “I even thought about how much money I put into the pool, and how long I personally spent in the pool itself, and it came out to something like $250 an hour. It’s just not worth it anymore.”

Simon compared the situation to his grandparents’ home (and his childhood home) in Wassau, Wisc., which was built by his mason great-grandparents, right on a beautiful lake in the heart of the woods. After the grandparents died, Simon’s father ultimately chose to sell the place instead of retiring there. Simon said he wished he could someday talk to the man one-on-one to ascertain why Dad turned down a rare opportunity to preserve the family estate in God’s Country, but it wasn’t that important in retrospect, now that it was a done deal.

As I dipped my way through another plate of greased flesh and let out a tremendous groan, Simon leaned back against the tap columns and let out a harsh reaction.

“Son of a bitch!” he said.

“Today is the company retreat, and I’ve just been holding down the fort. Just got a text saying the other bartenders are showing up here in a bit, I just sent a server home…

“and I bet everyone is shit-faced already.”

I chuckled and smiled a quaff into my glass, then stepped away to play some pinball on the far-right side of the bar. There was a “Walking Dead” machine, and an “Avatar” machine, and good fortune left me a combined 5 credits between the two. Simon wished me best of luck in beating his high score, because nobody beats him.

And, true to form, Simon — abbreviated with the unfortunate initialism “SBD” — had the top mark on both machines. Second to him on each was his rival “EMC,” a local DJ who takes pinball seriously and competes in local tournaments. As for me, I didn’t fare so hot, but I enjoyed burning through $5 worth of heaven-sent quarters in about 6 minutes.

Simon told me that The Vintage rents their machines from a distributor, which isn’t a big deal, except that by the time he’s figured out how to a master a machine for record scoring, the corporate game wardens come and wheel the machine out to a lucky bastard who bought it outright. Then he gets a new franchise and has to start all over on establishing himself as the local Pinball Wizard.

By the time I got back to the rail, the home-team Brewers folded to the Mets, 4-2, despite a late rally attempt in the 9th. I ordered Hamm’s on draft for the first time in my life and watched the sunset fall on Madison out the window.

Suddenly, but with full warning, 12 bubbly people walked in the door and immediately started slapping hands. Simon waved and brought them in with subtle hesitance. A man in a cut-off white T-shirt stepped into the door slot and into the bar service area, then gave Simon a sweaty hug.

“You need help, brother? Let me hop back here real quick,” he said.

“You ain’t gotta do that,” Simon said.

“Don’t worry, I’ve been doing this since 8 a.m.”

Simon wiped his brow, sighed, and got right to work serving his peers a beer of their own. The crowd had boxed me in to my seat at the trough, and Simon jumped over to look out for me before serving a dozen-deep queue.

“Whatcha need, my buddy Jeff?”

I told him it was a great time talking, but that I needed to close my tab and head back to the hotel for the rest of my journey. I wished him well in Port Wing, and he offered me the same for wherever the road took me next.

Tomorrow, en route to Evanston, Ill., the road will bring me back to my thrifty planning and microwave meals. I’ll masquerade as a local nobody in some off-interstate Wal-Mart or Pic n’ Save on the way out of Wisconsin. I will return to my status quo of dicey breakfast burritos and “open film and stir” as a valid cooking method, and lugging the microwave out of its Tupperware crate and into the hotel surge protector.

But tonight, I had dinner with a kindly bartender who was many other things: A father, a husband. A quick hand in the kitchen. A guy who’s ready to believe in the Milwaukee Bucks for the first time in his life, and maybe find some sort of financially reasonable solution to the backyard pool after the last kid moves away to college-land. A genuine guy who wants nothing more than to spend his birthday in a $40 cabin, away from it all.

I just hope Simon gets to see a bear. He deserves to finally see a bear.

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-moose