“I’m going to Milwaukee next week. Where should I go?” I asked a former Milwaukee resident. “Have you ever been to the Safe House?” “No, but that sounds fun. Where is it?” I said. “Can’t tell you, but you’ll find it.” And so it began in search of America’s only spy bar. And the journey was anything but safe.

“I can’t tell you,” said the bellhop at the downtown Milwaukee hotel where I was staying. “You have to tell me! It’s your freakin’ job!” I said. After some coursing (and a five dollar bill) I was at least led in the right direction. Across the river, it is somewhere over near the old Pabst brewery. I started walking and found an alley with a neon sign over the door. “This is it,” the neon brightly stated. “This must be it,” I thought, and I went in and ordered a beer.

I noticed that the bar was decidedly male. In fact it was all male. And if the bartender dressed up as a highway patrolman was not enough evidence, maybe it was the guy in the chaps across the room. Very quickly I found out that “this was not it” and briskly headed back down the alley.

Walking around dark alleys at night in downtown metropolitan areas is not my idea of a good time, especially when you had just stumbled into a bar that was frequented by Milwaukee’s most famous butcher Jeffery Dahmer. But before declaring my walk futile and heading back to the hotel to try to get my tip back from the bellhop, I stumbled upon a lit doorway with a brass sign that stated “International Exports, Inc.” I thought I was on to something.

When I opened the door, a lovely woman was sitting at a desk in front of a wall of books. “What’s the password?” she asked. I provided a blank stare, much the same one I had minutes earlier at the “This is it.” I shrugged my shoulders.

“Okay, that will be one dollar and you have to do the hokey pokey.” I gave her the buck and executed a flawless rendition of my favorite childhood dance. She reached under the desk and hit a button, which slid the wall of books behind another wall and revealed a single downward staircase.

I walked down the stairs and entered the Safe House with the look of amazement. The patrons had a look of glee, as they had just watched me hokey pokey on the TV monitors linked to a hidden camera behind the lady at the desk.

All of the bartenders were in tuxedos. A magician was doing card tricks. Food was being delivered to tables by rail cars. Behind the large bar was a map of the world with lights flashing in Washington D.C. and Moscow. Come to find out, a safe house was a secret place for spies to plan covert operations. In Milwaukee, the Safe House is a secret place for wannabe spies to plan cavort operations.

After a couple of hours of drinks and good, clean spy fun, I was ready to exit. “Oh great, they got me again,” I thought. How do I get out of this place? After a few minutes of fumbling around, I found a phone booth that provided a clue. Upon putting in a quarter for a phone call, a wall opened up inside the booth much like the one in Get Smart and a stairway to the street was revealed.

Since 1966 when the Safe House opened, “Secret Agents” – as patrons are called – are supposed to find this place exactly the way I did: by word of mouth and then doing a little espionage. Now that I have found the Safe House, I am sworn as a Secret Agent that I cannot reveal its whereabouts. You have to find it just like I did. But look for the lady at the desk, and then you will know that “this is it.” – D.M.

I’m the pied piper of Buffalo, without the piccolo. Simply the words “Let’s go to Hutch’s” bring out a throng of my snow-capped friends. What started out as a party of four has ballooned to double digits on my frequent visits. But that’s fine with me. Hutch’s is simply one of the best dining experiences in the country and worth every Buffalo nickel.

Mark Hutchinson is a maestro in the kitchen, even if his kitchen can barely fit a quartet. Trained at the renowned Mansion at Turtle Creek in Dallas, Hutch brought southwestern style cuisine to a town that thinks Taco Bell serves authentic Mexican food.

Patrick, the gentleman maitre d’, greets you at the small foyer. The bar is oddly in the back of the restaurant, but it works. Highly skilled bartenders serve you in the large brick room. You pass the closet, er, kitchen when heading for a libation. “Hey Hutch, get ready, the party went from 4 to 14.”

This is definitely a two-course minimum restaurant, and with a large party it is best to share appetizers, have a salad and an entree. The service is impeccable. If fact, my favorite staff member can flawlessly deliver multiple courses for a table of 14 without writing anything down. I can’t remember what I had for lunch.

Once seated, Hutch has gathered an excellent wine list. His food is flawless, ranging from American staples like beef and soft-shell crabs, to southern style dishes like jambalaya to southwestern favorites like chili relleno. The most difficult thing about your dining experience is deciding what to order because everything seems so mouth-watering. Specials are abundant; so pay attention like you work there.

I’ve told everyone about this restaurant and it has never disappointed. At the airport once, I raved to a group of hockey writers from Sports Illustrated and the New York Post covering the Stanley Cup finals about the place. A couple days later, when I ran into them at Hutch’s, they raved back.

Hutch and I gathered together at the end of one of my Buffalo visits at Jimmy Mac’s on Elmwood Street. After a couple of rounds, the bartender brought the bottle of Jameson and put it in front of us. “You guys have so many drinks coming, just help yourself,” he said. A funny moment, but truly a tribute to Hutch and what he has done for haute cuisine in the home of the chicken wing. Apparently, I am not the only fan. – D.M.