At some point during the RAFT summit back in March, one Wisconsin orchard-keeper publicly despaired of ever making a profit off of his cider. The number of apples needed to squeeze out a gallon of juice, the labor, and other associated costs, forced the price structure of cider closer to that of wine than beer, he said, but consumers don’t want to pay wine prices for something percieved as simple and rustic. Thus, he sighed, his bottles gathered dust on grocery shelves.

“Couldn’t you just put a sign on it that it’s locally made?” asked one starry-eyed locavore. “I’d think people would buy anything if they know it’s local.”

I don’t remember exactly what the cidermaker said, but it boiled down to, “Uh, no.”

I thought of this the other day when I checked in with the Death’s Door Spirits blog to see how their plans for world domination were proceeding. Things are looking good! They have a new distributor and the company’s white whiskey, vodka, and gin are now available in New York, New Jersey, and California as well as across the midwest. And the company continues to get good press, with recent mentions in Imbibe and on the bartender’s trade website My SpeedRail.

And yet …. some people are not buying it. The booze, or the story.

As Brian Ellison wrote in May:

“Its ironic that some of the hardest sales have been in Door County, where the wheat for our product is grown. J.J., of the illustrious JJ’s and Waterfront, was practically out and out hostile towards the brand. “Why do I care if the grain is grown on Washington Island?” He asked, “So big deal, it helps two farmers. Have they ever come into my restaurant to eat?”

Frankly, I’m not surprised.

While there was a fair amount of island-wheat pride on display on Washington Island last summer, not everyone was a fan. One islander’s cutting remark outside Karly’s to the effect that DDS was “taking the branding a little far” vividly stuck with me . Several others I met privately disparaged the stuff — sniffing at either the quality of the hooch or scoffing at the notion that anyone up north would pay $30 for a bottle of vodka.

I don’t know if this was a simple case of familiarity breeding contempt or what (in a rural community, farmers aren’t exactly exotic) but these dissenting voices buzzed in the background of my summer, worming their way into my consciousness. And it’s fair to say that they are at least partly responsible for the current back-burner position of this project.

The reporter in me knows that conflict is the engine of narrative, and noble failures are always more interesting than success stories. But I’ll admit now that the mechanics of  trying to unpack that conflict, as an outsider in a tiny community, ultimately defeated me. Sometime in August I just gave up.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately as it’s been a year since I packed up the Protege and headed to Door County. I still think there’s a good story to tell here about islands and food and development and utopian ideas and Wisconsin — but it has a much longer arc than one lazy summer can allow. I hope to go back sometime soon and see how the hotel is doing in its first season sans Leah. Beyond that, I’m not sure.

But this question of the relative market value of localism — why the story of Death’s Door Spirits “sticks” in New York City but not in Sister Bay — is interesting on its own. I’d be interested to hear if anyone knows of similar ventures in the region. I’m thinking of high-profile artisanal enterprises like La Quercia and weirdo visionaries like Willi Lehner — anyone trying to harness something essentially midwestern and sell it to the rest of the world. How are they doing? Let me know.