Quentin "The Grinch" Braun, 81, former owner/cook of Cleveland's Diner in Madison, WI
Hoodude
http://www.madison.com/wsj/mad/local//index.php?ntid=199820
Lampert Smith: Alas Madison's 'Grinch' has died
The "Grinch" is gone forever, but he left his mark on the sidewalk of
East Wilson Street.
And on the waistlines of many patrons of the former Cleveland's Lunch.
If you look at the concrete slab outside the restaurant at 410 E.
Wilson, now known as Cleveland's Diner, you'll see the signature "The
Grinch," and the date, April 28, 1977.
For Madisonians too young to remember eggs dished up with attitude,
"The Grinch" was a nickname earned by the bearded and cranky former
Cleveland's owner Quentin Braun, who owned the place from 1972 to 1992.
Braun, 81, died June 20 in Rosendale, where he moved after selling the
restaurant to be closer to his sister, State Rep. Carol Owens,
R-Oshkosh. In later years, she said, he enjoyed collecting antiques,
coins and "anything he could buy cheap that he thought would be
valuable someday."
For at least a generation, he was the Madison short-order cook who
served up omelets and guff from behind the Cleveland's counter.
Sometimes, it would get truly entertaining.
One time, regular customer George Mader's banter got to be too much
for the Grinch.
"He told my dad to get out of his restaurant," said Karen Mader
Thompson. "So my dad picked up his ham and eggs, and sat out on the
curb and finished them."
Despite being initially afraid of Braun, Thompson grew to appreciate
him when she worked at Cleveland's as a waitress during the 1980s.
During those years, the WORT radio show "Breakfast Special" broadcast
live from Cleveland's, sometimes with Braun as a character. As it has
since the first Cleveland's opened in 1911, the place drew a mix of
blue-collar workers, university students, state employees and politicians.
One assistant district attorney was known to pitch in at the sink when
the pile of dirty dishes grew too high.
"The irony is that my brother was a conservative, but most of his
friends were Democrats," said Owens, who noted that her brother
donated food and time to various causes including Wisconsin Public
Television and Olbrich Gardens.
His reputation as a crab was also overblown.
"He wanted you to think he was one tough cookie," Owens said, "But
really, he was a pussy cat."
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Hoodude
Doug Moe — 6/26/2007 11:27 am
http://www.madison.com/tct/news/198920
A LOT of colorful characters found their way into Cleveland's Lunch
Room during Quentin Braun's two-decade run as owner, but the greatest
character of all just may have been the salty guy behind the counter.
Cracking eggs and cracking wise, Braun put his own indelible stamp on
a tiny restaurant that has existed on East Wilson Street in one form
or another for nearly a century.
Braun, who died in Oshkosh last week at 81, ran Cleveland's, at 410 E.
Wilson, from 1972-1992. He ran it as the cholesterol police's biggest
nightmare, serving artery-popping omelettes, pancakes, meat loaf,
roast beef and pies. The food wasn't the only show, either. WORT-FM's
"Breakfast Special" aired for years from Cleveland's -- in the diner's
"Pink Flamingo Room" that was adjacent to the lunch counter -- and
when the radio program wasn't on, there was always people-watching.
Like Rick's in "Casablanca," eventually everybody came to Cleveland's.
"Police officers, gas station owners," wrote Joan Judd in 1974, "junk
dealers, truck drivers, postal clerks, transits, office girls,
lawyers, drunks, and an ex-mayor -- you name them, come from all over
town to chew the fat or read the newspaper and get something to eat."
The thing about Cleveland's is, Judd could have written that piece 50
years earlier. In fact, someone did. A 1920s Capital Times story
headlined "Where the Poor and Rich Rub Elbows" included this:
"On East Wilson Street, there stands a squat, one-story frame building
in which, if you wait long enough, you may meet nearly everyone you
ever knew. It is Cleveland's lunchroom. Princes of finance, manual
laborers, clerks, actors, bootleggers, and judges all go there at one
time or another for something to eat. ... There is something in the
informality of the place that makes for good fellowship among its
patrons."
Under Braun, who resembled one of his pies -- crusty on the outside,
soft underneath -- Cleveland's flourished. Asked once what kept him at
it so long, Braun replied, "I'll be damned if I know. I must be nuts.
I like this banter we have back and forth, kibitzing with the customers."
A longtime friend and customer, John Robinson, said Monday that when
he moved to Madison in the 1970s and wanted to learn about the city,
he sought out a greasy spoon in an effort to take the pulse of the
"real" Madison. When he found Cleveland's and Quentin Braun, Robinson
knew he was in the right place.
Braun's impact went beyond Cleveland's. He was a tireless advocate for
Wisconsin Public Television, and was known to show up unsolicited
during pledge drives to cook for the volunteers. He liked art and
antiques and the Audubon Society.
Friends called the gravel-voiced and occasionally gruff Braun "the
Grinch," but the real friends knew better. Local cartoonist Pete
Mueller once shared a story with writer Jay Rath about driving
downtown in the wee hours and seeing the Cardinal Bar on fire. Braun
arrived nearly as quickly as the firefighters, opening Cleveland's and
getting coffee and breakfast to the Cardinal's upstairs residents
displaced by the blaze.
Monday, a pastor in California named Jerry De Jong phoned back to
Madison, where he had lived in the 1970s and '80s. De Jong wondered if
someone might be writing something about Quentin Braun. As a young man
struggling to find himself, De Jong said, he had made some bad choices
and Braun had helped rescue him from the abyss, with meals and
straight talk and what is now often called tough love. "I remember him
shaking a spatula at me," De Jong said, the older man telling the
younger one in no uncertain terms to pull himself together. "But no
one was prouder of me when I did," De Jong said. "He had an absolute
heart of gold."
Destiny did good work putting Braun in Cleveland's. The undersized
diner needed an outsized personality. A Pine Bluff native named
Orlando Cleveland started it all in 1911. His wife owned it after his
death and then in 1952 a Stoughton native named William Anderson
bought Cleveland's, remodeled it and cut back its hours of operation
slightly. It had previously been open 24 hours a day. Braun bought it
after Anderson's death in the early 1970s.
In late September 1992, Braun announced his retirement. "It's just too
many hours, and I'm not 29 anymore," he said, and the restaurant
closed. It reopened under new ownership as Cleveland's Diner in 1995.
Braun moved to Rosendale, near Oshkosh, where he had family. He came
back to Madison to see friends and for his volunteer work, but in
recent years Braun had been fighting congestive heart disease. He died
June 20, shortly after a group of his friends from Wisconsin Public
Television had been up for a visit.
While people could -- and did -- argue over the quality of the cuisine
while Braun was running Cleveland's, there is no denying he was ahead
of his time in insisting on fresh ingredients.
In 1974, a reporter asked him why everything at Cleveland's was made
from scratch.
"Because," the one and only Quentin Braun replied, "it's easier than
opening a damn package."
Heard something Moe should know? Call 252-6446, write PO Box 8060,
Madison, WI 53708, or e-mail dmoe @ madison.com
Doug Moe — 6/26/2007 11:27 am
KingDaevid
> JUL 2, 2007 - 12:21 PMhttp://www.madison.com/wsj/mad/local//index.php?ntid=199820
>
> During those years, the WORT radio show "Breakfast Special" broadcast
> live from Cleveland's, sometimes with Braun as a character.
...I was the last studio board op that show ever had. The last record
I played on that last show? "Goodbye" by Mary Hopkin...
kdm