I was starving today after my unfortunate incident with the gas station pulled pork sandwich earlier this morning and the bathroom shenanigans that ensued after. I needed a lot of food to fill the hole inside of me. Stat.
Alice and I usually go back and forth on where we want to eat until we eventually end up at home eating ground chicken and Campbell’s sauce in a bag over some rice. Not this time. “Tonight”, I said “We dine like old people. Tonight, we eat at Cracker Barrel.”
For those of you haven’t had the pleasure, Cracker Barrel is a family style restaurant attached to a country store. Alice likes the country store. I think the folksy wares would look much better on fire. To each their own. The restaurant specializes in giant platters of home-style Sunday dinner-type platters. We went there once before and were completely intrigued by the menu. It had almost a southern flair with catfish, grits and okra. Unusual for a chain. They have a pretty good selection of entrees and a pretty impressive collection of sides that you can add on.
After a good study of the menu, I decided upon the biggest breakfast that they had. The Country Boy. Two pork chops, a side of grits, biscuits and gravy, hot apple filling, three eggs (over easy) and hash brown casserole. I figured that it’s pretty hard to fuck up breakfast. Alice caught me unawares when she ordered the chicken liver dinner, grits, hash brown casserole and corn muffins.
Lost in a sea of white.
My pork chops were actually really good. I was expecting rubbery, chewy leather strips. I was pleasantly surprised that they were tender juicy and well seasoned. The hash brown casserole was hash browns with cheese. The grits were underdone. The biscuits were kind of stale and the gravy was mediocre. All of this could have been excused except for one thing. My eggs were overdone. Now, listen. There are about a million things I can forgive. Eggs are not one of them. A well cooked egg is the perfect food. A poorly cooked egg reminds you that you are mortal and that you will die a horrible death in a fire. It would take a lot for me to actually send food back to the kitchen. There would normally have to be a bug or a finger in the food but tonight, I was tempted. Only one out of three of the yolks was truly liquid.
The real surprise of the night was Alice’s chicken livers. Deep fried to perfection. They were fucking delicious. If chocolate was an internal organ, it would be a chicken’s liver. Who fucking knew? Not me, I can tell you that.
Deep fried innards.
All and all it was a decent meal. What it lost in quality it certainly made up for in quantity. The meal fortified Alice’s mind enough for her to figure out that we should entrench ourselves in a down-home country lifestyle. She would dress like Dolly Parton and I would get a lot of fringed shirts. We would learn how to square dance and buy rocking chairs for ourselves and for our five cats. I think the gravy and corn muffins got to her head. But, then again, we do live in Boise. What the fuck else is there to do?