Wrong Way McDonald's

One of the strangest things I had ever done was to go through a McDonald's drive-thru backwards. Many of you have already tried to visualize going through in reverse either so the guy riding shotgun would be able to place his order directly but that's not what I meant. This relates to my first experience at the world-famous restaurant chain at one of their franchises in England. "Backwards" means that the drive-thru wraps around the building in the other direction, as in clockwise!

Many things are different about the overseas experience with fast food, all of which make it at interesting enough to almost be an adventure but certainly not the normal routine expected at home. In Germany a Filet-o-Fish is called a "Fisch Mac," for example. We all know by now that a country that operates on the metric system would therefore not have a "Quarter Pounder" on the menu so it might have a name like the French "Burger Royale" instead. Likewise they by now understand that the German word for big, "Gross," would NOT translate to steady sales from English speaking patrons who happen to stop by. Another reason for names like "Koenig'sburger" (King's Burger).

In England the product names tend to translate fairly easily so no worries about what exactly is being selected from the menu. The interiors of the restaurants from one country to another are also fairly innocuous and easily recognized, perhaps with a few local flairs thrown in just so the natives will feel more connected as well. While on business in London one time, though, we were in a hurry as most business travelers tend to be and decided we had just enough time to hit the drive through before going back to the office.

McDonald's was nearby, everybody knew the brand, the product and what to expect so in we go to the parking area, except I happened to be the one that was driving. Instinctively I started turn right to join the "queue" for the drive-thru. "No, mate, turn left!" my local companions warned before I completed my maneuver. In England with right-side drive (from the passenger seat to most others) the menu board and attendant speaker is on the right hand side of the car. To face it properly and not be considered a total "prat," the line for the window starts at the left side of the building.

Drive thru's in general tended to be more of a novelty at the time as opposed to something absolutely required in the design of the establishment. This is Europe, after all, where population density is much greater than America and land is certainly not to be frivolously paved over. Even at a lot of highway rest stops the logic leans towards entering the restaurant as opposed to pulling over in a drive-thru. One has to get gas in the first place, which means getting out of the car, plus the fact that a gallon of regular there is easily twice the cost in the United States. Not something to burn through so readily while idling in a drive-thru waiting on a burger and fries.

So here I am trying to navigate the narrow lane for the drive-thru near Heathrow Airport from the left side of the building while piloting a car from the right hand side of the front seat. Even though my favorite sandwich at Mickey-Ds is the Filet-o-Fish I knew better than to order something like that while in England, home and reigning king of fish and chips.

I went with a Quarter Pounder!

Gotta go.

Traveling Under Contract

In the travel industry service providers have this mysterious arm of employees called sales managers. Or Account Executives. Or something along those lines to give the grueling and cruel position some sense of power and respectability. Like the ubiquitous "Fuller Brush Man" they beat the bushes of corporate America hustling for the attentions and business of other corporations in what can be summed up as some of the most cut throat day trading left on the planet.

The corporate volume agreement is a key tool used to guarantee a revenue stream from a major customer in to the service provider, be it airline, rental car company or hotel. Travel providers operating on microscopic profit margins need every penny they can get. Corporations with far flung operations want as much of a break in travel costs as they can get. Now comes the fun...can they get a better discount from United or America, from Sheraton or Hyatt, from Avis or Hertz? McDonald's?

Most restaurants do not generally have a sales force beyond their marketing division which deals in print advertising and television commercials. After that their reputation, location and whether or not they accept the corporate card of choice are usually all they need to get people off the streets and in to their dining rooms. Hotels have rooms to fill and they measure their performance in terms such as "room/nights," or how many nights each room of a given property can generate. A one-night stay? Meh. Too much work. A group of 30 for ten nights each? Now you're talking! More of those, please, and how about some help with all those meeting rooms?

Rental car companies have huge fleets of cars in all sizes to keep on the roads and the longer the rentals the better for them. They have to move the car, often as a loss-leader to get to the margin boosting add-ons like collision damage waivers, GPS and category upgrades.

Same with airlines only amplified to an unimaginable degree. They have thousands of empty seats to fill, any one of which might be available for sale from one to six times a day depending on how often that particular aircraft takes off and lands within a 24 hour window. Add in other variables like market competition, day of the week and time of the year and that seat can have literally dozens of possible fares attached to it. Do you go after Grandma or General Electric?

Buy more, get more, basically, and other "toys" can come with those contracts, too, like free nights and cars, upgraded cars, rooms and seats in First Class. Airlines will even "match" membership status across frequent flyer programs. Other incentives can include memberships to the airline club lounges or even their particular brand of "Special Services" which amounts to individualized airport concierge service at the largest (and most notorious) hubs and key markets.

Today everybody pretends that their agreement is exclusive and that penalties will be invoked if the corporation double-dips with other service retailers in key markets. Doesn't happen. The corporate account often has multiple contracts designed for different things that covers the spread of their travel and lets them hit their travel targets across the board. No airline in their right mind will kill the goose so they can have all of the golden eggs. In markets like Chicago, New York, Boston and Los Angeles, it's sign here, then here, handshake, here's your bag of treats and thanks for buying exclusively with us!

Wink wink, nudge nudge.

Gotta go.

Time To Wait

There are some restaurants in Europe that only offer one sitting. It is not hard to imagine that the prices are high but the atmosphere just as rarified as patrons wait weeks for a table and are never, ever rushed through their meal in order to seat a second or third party. The concept is that the meal is only a part of the experience of simply enjoying an evening out at a fine restaurant with good company, good food, wine and service...almost literally all night long. Not so much, the experience at a typical American restaurant.

The dining culture in the United States is typically one that features dinner as part of a larger evening, be it dinner and a show or dinner and home to the kids or a favorite program. Rarely it seems do Americans dine out simply for the sake of some time together as a couple or part of a group just for conversation, fellowship or what have you. We rush to get a good reservation, hustle for a good table and then, encouraged by both wait staff and the establishment itself, we hurry through a meal only to decide later whether or not it was all worth the effort. Anything over an hour at most restaurants in America is considered déclassé and a colossal waste of time.

High volume and low prices is the order of the day in virtually every business, particularly in the restaurant game where waiting tables is not a career profession in North America as it can be in Europe. Few people other than the restaurant manager make anything close to a comfortable living while the wait staff is often a healthy mix of Florence Jean "Flo" Castleberrys from the TV series "Alice" and bored, gum-snapping Generation Y'ers hustling tips to supplement their student loan money. And in the high-energy culture of dining out on this side of the Atlantic the only way for any waiter or waitress to earn a living is to keep the tables turning.

Service must be courteous and attentive but fast. It is not necessarily rude here to be presented with the check when the waiter perceives your dining experience to be over. The worst part to me, however, seems to be an increasing trend in wait staff at the end of their shift boldly asking tables to cash out while they're still on the clock so they can get the tip instead of their replacement. Even worse, some restaurants will ask to close the exiting ticket and open a second for as long as you with to remain.

Big problem here, of the kind that just doesn't happen in Europe, and not much of an incentive for the desert and coffee server, either. I don't necessarily see an issue with the waiters and waitresses who feel compelled to protect their earnings in this fashion. The issue I see is with the restaurant itself who do not have a system in place to support their staff better. Why seat parties in a section where the shift is about to change? Why not log tickets according to when they opened so the exiting waiter's work will be paid when that table finally decides to up and leave?

One abysmal summer during my college years I was a cater waiter, the lowest form of wait staff save that of the buffet server. Neither can ever expect much in the way of tips and we were never permitted to hint or overtly beg for gratuities. I got $10 once and was told by the customer not to share the news with my lead waitress. He didn't like her but thought that I was at least giving it a good college try to serve his table.

That event and the art of serving both seem so long ago.

Gotta go.

One Man's Heaven

When a friend comes in to town for business you always try to hook up over dinner. Oftentimes it is the only time you have a chance to visit and catch up as any number of meetings, conference calls and deadlines can and do get in the way during the course of the business day. Even though it was a noticeable distance from the house when the firm is picking up the tab for a chance to reconnect the time and gas are the least I can do. This time, however, was unlike none I have ever experienced before. We went to a brand new eatery and fun/hen house by the name of "Redneck Heaven."

I'm explaining to my suddenly very concerned father on the phone while waiting for my friend to show up that it is not 30 miles from the nearest paved road surrounded by livestock and open fields with strange burn marks in the soil. Along the lines of "Hooters," "Twin Peaks," and "Bone Daddy's," "Redneck Heaven" is a variation on a tried and true theme - breasts (not always chicken), beer and burgers served up by barely legal beauties only this time instead of wearing orange they're in bikini halters and "Daisy Duke" shorts. The only thing not in line with the full costume were the flat boots each wore instead of the spiked heels their namesake inspiration ran through the countryside in on the "Dukes of Hazzard." The roof of the General Lee, Confederate flag and all, hangs from one of the walls while the famous "Dixie" horn sounds anytime anything cheeky happens. The one and only establishment as of this writing sits right next to the Vista Ridge Mall in Lewisville alongside heavily traveled Interstate I-35 just north of Dallas.

"Not too popular with the brothas?" was the first question I got upon returning to work the next day to tell my office mates all about it. I was in fact the only customer of color in the place but there were two "sistas" helping with the serving and causing their fair share of mayhem with the men folk one would most definitely expect to find in a place with a name like that. My buddy, in from South Carolina, don'tcha know, practically squealed with delight when he came in, rubbing his hands together and hunching his shoulders like the proverbial kid with the cookie jar.

As he took his seat our "Daisy" plopped in to the seat between us as if it was the most perfectly normal thing to do. Apparently it was because the table next to ours had no open seat so their "Daisy" simply sat in one of the highly appreciative men's laps and took their orders without missing a second thought. The food was standard fare with one exception. I was convinced by our "Daisy" to try the "Mississippi Mud Burger," an open faced half-pounder cooked to order on a slice of thick, buttered Texas Toast and drenched in onions and brown gravy.

Oh my. Frivolous flesh was never my thing but I'd go back for that burger on a regular basis! Good thing I don't drink, either, because one classic sleeveless bubba in the back downed the house special without breaking a sweat. The "Minnow Shot" is a shot of liquor with a live minnow in the glass. He chewed the hapless herring b-e-f-o-r-e downing the booze that would have otherwise put the flapper out of its misery. Shrieks of delight from the "Daisy Chain" while the horn blared "Dixie" for one and all to cheer the cable guy on.

All this on a Monday night during the football game. Friday they plan to have a "She-Devil/Angel" costume party. Our "Daisy" didn't know which to choose so I gave her an idea to think about: red boots, black "Daisy Dukes," a tail and topped with angel wings and a halo. Best of both worlds.

Gotta go.

The Knock Kneed Lobster

Incongruity or things that don't always make sense right away come up rather frequently when you're traveling around for business or pleasure. In today's vernacular what I'm essentially saying is "Who'da thunk it?" In this case the two things that don't automatically come together in the mind's eye is Phoenix, Arizona's love for very English fish and chips.

One after the other, some one-off Mom & Pop "chippies" by the side of the road, others with a chain of outlets across the valley, one is never far from one of these greasy delights from across the pond. Having lived and traveled in Europe I've been accustomed to the joys of a golden fried filet paired up with thick, starchy planks of deep fried wedges since I was a child. I remember living in Atlanta and putting in regular calls to Arthur Treacher's for what remains some of the tastiest fish and chips on this side of the Atlantic.

I've been to Long John Silver's and Captain D's on many an occasion and have the gut to show for it but I simply didn't expect to see the number of local varieties that serve Greater Phoenix. Understand also that these are all restaurants dedicated to the art of fish and chips. Other food offerings are on the menu but these are not wanna-be pubs or airport taverns that ALSO serve fish and chips. These establishments and their customers LIVE for fish and chips - in the middle of the Arizona desert.

An uncle encouraged me to visit a favorite haunt of his since the days of his own childhood in Central Phoenix not too far from the airport. Every return trip he makes to visit family includes a stop at the Knock Kneed Lobster at 32nd and Washington for a taste of bygone days and a bit of fish. Who could resist such an endorsement as I made sure to include the place on my list of per diem options for dinner one evening.

To look at the place is to pass right by if you even notice it at all. A low white building sits at the northeast corner of the intersection looking for all the world like someplace only locals would know or care about. No immaculate landscaping, attractive architecture or over-the-top neon screaming to passers-by, it is a typical one-off shop that quietly goes about its business of serving large portions of golden fish and shoe-string potatoes, bottles of vinegar and sauce dispensers at the ready.

The menu was overloaded with other choices but if this is a one and only visit I go with the claim to fame signature dish for my evening of calories, carbohydrates and cholesterol. The verdict? Not bad. I honestly have a (ruined to some) taste for Long John Silver's over the meal I ate at "KKL" but I allowed that if it is something you grew up with there must certainly be nothing else like it. The filets were large but it seemed as if they were pounded rather thin and slightly crunchier than I prefer. They definitely were not in the same size category as those served in England which seem to be the whole fish instead of just one filet of cod. The meal was passable but no real great shakes.

Would I go back? Well, let's just say that I'd probably want to try Ed's, Pete's, Brad's, Mandy's, Lazy Lou's or The Codfather first, if only to have something to compare them with.

Gotta go!

Greek in Phoenix

Ah, Phoenix in the Summertime. I told Boss Lady emphatically that I wasn't gunning for a trip to Phoenix for the sake of air miles. It was July - the locals don't want to be in town at that time of the year so why would I want to go there on purpose? Duty called, however, so off to the desert I went where I found to my surprise that the stated temperature of 108 wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. What turned out to be sadly worse than expected unfortunately was the meal I experienced in neighboring Tempe.

The collegiate among you will know that Tempe is the home of Arizona State University, the Sundevils where all along Mill Avenue, "The Strip" running north/south along the western edge of the campus are bookstores, incense and candle shops, clothing stores and restaurants from greasy spoons to major chains. Co-workers one evening suggested "My Big Fat Greek Restaurant" in the heart of the strip and I figured it would be an interesting evening, Mediterranean food in the middle of the desert.

Two of us arrived well before the third so it was conversation in the well appointed patio area where it was sufficiently cool not to require the ubiquitous misters. These nifty devices that Dallas needs more of spray cooling mist on the patrons to encourage al fresco dining or help in the transition from the swelter of outside to the air-conditioned comfort of hotels and restaurants. We were seated quickly and the waiter was on his game throughout the evening.

There was no Greek band or music playing which actually was quite fine with me. I enjoy "atmosphere" but like Louisiana zydeco, unless it is in my blood it gets old pretty fast.
I started with a bowl of "avgolemono," or Greek chicken soup which was crisp and flavorful while my companion needed to eat early and run (although she ended up staying) and ordered the gyros. Maybe I'm spoiled but I generally refuse to eat gyros in the United States as it consists of "pressed" meat combining lamb and either beef or chicken. In Europe the meat slowly revolving on the vertical spit roaster is clearly carved from something that had hooves and is far more flavorful despite being a tougher chew. Our third companion finally arrived who also ordered gyros while I went with the 20 ounce bone in lamb shank.

What a disappointment. What meat there was to be had was rich, flavorful and fork tender. The majority of the cut in front of me, however, was bone and fat. I enjoy bone-in steaks and am the kind of diner who will strip the bone completely before cutting and tucking in to the meat itself; that way I don't have to wrestle with it all through the meal. By the time I finished de-boning the lamb in front of me I was amazed at how much of it was inedible. Further and final disappointment came when asking the waiter if the 20 ounces was the entire dish or the net weight of the meat itself. It was the whole thing.

Well, it was good for my prodigious waistline at least, and I might dine there again but most definitely on something other than this "new" house specialty!

Gotta go.

A Dog and His Chicken

As travels take one around the country there is the inevitable encounter with a previously unheard of chain of fast food restaurants that intrigue, entice and excite. Aw, c'mon, you say to yourself, it's fast foot for crying out loud. What's to get excited about? Ask anyone from California who hasn't had an In-N-Out burger in a while and stand back for the reaction is all I can tell you. Now imagine my own delight when a co-worker and I stumbled across a place called "Raising Cane's" while on business in Louisiana.

Founded in the mid-90s by a college guy out of LSU in Baton Rouge who named it for his beloved pet dog, it has since grown to numerous locations over 13 states from Nevada to Virginia, strategically near college campuses where customers the founder understands are plentiful with budgets he also is very familiar with. The concept is chicken fingers, pure and simple and nothing else. Chicken fingers, fries and drinks. In-N-Out would be so proud.
We decide to dine in and enter the bright and cheerful dining area with a smallish serving counter to the left; just two register stations but a manageable line of only three or four patrons in line while most of the business was happening at the drive thru. The menu is fairly straight forward...how many do you want, from two for a kid's meal to 100 for a tailgate party, and what do you want with it which, in its simplicity is astoundingly astute in helping customers avoid that amazingly annoying question of "Let's see...jeez, I haven't even looked to see what I want!"

I went with the standard "Box" lunch, four fingers, slaw, a dipping sauce reminiscent of Thousand Island dressing and a humongous slice of warm, buttered Texas toast along with a regular sized drink. Orders are taken and a numbered receipt returned to you after which you pour your own drink and choose a table in the dining area. If they don't have time to bring your meal to you they'll call out your name over the public address system within a few minutes.
I was surprised that there was any wait at all considering how easy chicken fingers are to prepare: there's no shortage of customers during the lunch rush and none of those customers come with complicated special orders since there are no toppings to choose from. I expect fresh and hot food at all times from restaurants but can easily see speeding up the process that much more with a well-trained crew that knows how many fingers to "cook up" ahead of the busiest two hours of the day.

When our order came it was indeed hot, fresh and plentiful. The fingers were hefty and clearly from whole breast strips instead of processed parts. The mildly seasoned flavor is not as compelling as KFC's Original Recipe, Chik-Fil-A or even McDonald's Southern Style but I guess that was deliberate to allow the dipping sauce a free hand in the overall taste combination. The crinkle cut fries were right out of a 50's style diner, hot and crisp with plenty of ketchup for dipping.

Having driven all the way to Monroe, Louisiana before seeing my first Raising Cane's I have since happily discovered that there are four outlets in Dallas/Ft. Worth for me to choose from. Of course, that's not saying much at the moment; for an area of 6.5 million people that's only two more than all of Monroe!

Gotta go!

The Best of Boudreaux's

It is amazing to me how driving through some random hamlet on the highway that one sometimes finds oneself right back in that same town later down the road of life. Monroe, Louisiana sits astride Interstate I-20 halfway between Shreveport and Vicksburg, Mississippi and about five hours from my home in Dallas, Texas. It's too big to blink and miss but only just. My father and I stopped for dinner at the Cracker Barrel in West Monroe on the drive from Maryland to Texas a little over two years before but on this occasion I was in town on business and wanted to try some local establishments.

Near the office on 18th Street and Tower is "Boudreaux's" which my co-worker and I noticed heading in that morning and had received rave reviews from locals and other out-of-town co-workers alike. Despite the strong recommendations our first disappointment was in simply trying to go there for lunch on a Tuesday. They were closed the first three days of the week, we discovered so made plans to try again Thursday night for dinner which was our last scheduled evening in town. Nice way to wrap up an enjoyable trip to this previously unexplored part of Louisiana.

It took a few ticks to notice the signing inviting us to seat ourselves as the pay-at-the-door cashier was working a healthy line of sated diners on the way out. Where some might consider Dallas laid back compared to cities up North, I began to wonder how laid back things were in Northern Louisiana. It took a bit longer than I was used to, including two stops at the table by the now free cashier, to finally have our waitress for the evening make her first appearance for drink orders. Sweet tea, of course, but hmmmm. We perused the two-sided laminated menu for their offerings but both pretty much knew what we wanted and merely skimmed the choices to make sure ours would be on the list.

Despite offering fried alligator as an appetizer my co-worker and I went with two orders of the "Cajun Sampler" which offered a plate of three choices and bread. I was on the watch by now to see if there was any delay in receiving our order but it appeared quickly enough at the table, plate hot and heavily ladled. Red beans and rice, dirty rice and jambalaya, plate hot and generously portioned and there all the good pretty much came to an end.

The red beans, including andouille sausage, had almost no flavor to speak of while it was harder to tell if the dirty rice or the jambalaya was the most dry. The latter specifically looked more like it was from yesterday's batch instead of simply having been under the warmer too long. Of the three selections on my co-worker's plate the crawfish etouffee was the most disappointing which was the death knell for "Boudreaux's" as far as a return visit was concerned: that was the dish she had been most anxious to try.

Another long line to cash out awaited me while the co-worker went outside for a smoke after dinner. We both agreed, sadly, that "Boudreaux's," if they weren't serving lefteauxvers were at least eauxver-rated.

Gotta go.

GumbOhio

It is not the coldest corner of the country in the middle of February but I nonetheless had a certain trepidation in traveling to Columbus, Ohio for a week on business. They promised that it wouldn't snow but The Weather Channel assured me most wickedly that the high temperature all that week would not be greater than 40 degrees. Northern Texas was already heading in to the low-60s where the citizens were breaking out big hair and flip flops again, happy to be alive and living "Deepinahearta." We so spoiled!

As mentioned part of my desire in traveling is to experience restaurants and foods only the locals know about. Well, J. Gumbo's is something that only the locals will know about but at the same time it was yet another example of "Who goes to Ohio for good cajun cooking?" Wednesday afternoon for lunch one of my co-workers acquainted us with this new establishment, built in the shell of a former Panera outlet. Squeezed in beside an orthodontist office it would easily have been missed on Granville Street in Gahanna but we arrived just ahead of the lunch rush and were served quickly.

The style is cafeteria with a large menu on the wall that divides the entrees in to four heat levels so diners will know exactly what they can tolerate within the burst of flavors served over rice. All dishes are arrayed behind a large glass sneeze-guard. Being new to the area, small samples of the dishes are available with me trying both the Bourbon Chicken and the Voodoo Chicken, the latter of which I ultimately settle on with a mix of red beans and rice, absolute staple of Louisiana cooking. My co-workers went with the Voodoo chicken and the white chili which was supposed to be only mildly spicy. Our selections were served in a large bowl with what appeared to be a full half loaf of hard crust bread for dipping.

For less than $7 per serving the price was right but my one grudge was in the size of the portions. Cajun food is served in massive quantities given that much of it is based on stews, soups and small critters; no slab of beef with two sides, it is a potent mixture of spices, vegetables, small bits of chicken and or shell fish. Maybe we only received the lunch portion but it was still filling enough with the rice and the loaf of bread.

Voodoo is a subtle form of magic and the namesake food compliments it well. Where the single-spoon sample was instantly alive with cayenne peppers and other strong spices it wasn't initially hot enough to be intimidating. My serving did not include the cayenne spice dusting that comes with the dish but my co-worker's did. The front of my face had a nice warmth to it at the end of the meal where my colleague was shedding funeral tears by the time it was all over.

The point of Louisiana cooking is not heat for the sake of it with exotic ingredients underneath but merely to evoke the feeling of being in the moment within the atmosphere. J. Gumbo's pulls in the middle of suburban Ohio.

Gotta go.

Down For Dairyland

My mood was heading south in a hurry after driving some 80 miles to experience the type of food at Herd’s Hamburgers that is supposed to be worth that kind of effort. It wasn’t. Despite the charms of Jacksboro, Texas, an historical frontier town once a destination to itself, I felt the need to leave as soon as possible. I was hungry and disappointed after a disappointing cheeseburger and chips.

On the way south with my mood I noticed a sign announcing the Dairyland Drive In Barbecue Pit on the east side of the road. I’ll have to try that one day I said to myself. Then I decided to do a U-ie and try it right then and there.

The wait staff couldn’t greet me fast enough, telling me to take any seat inside where a young couple was already enthusiastically enjoying a mountain of hot food. The man looked up, we chin-jerked greetings as I took my seat, a glass of sweet tea hitting the table in a near photo finish.

My order of sliced brisket and ribs appeared within minutes, including piping hot crinkle cut fries, Texas Toast, large dill pickle and a serving of THE best ranch house beans I’ve had this side of the Pecos! A squeeze bottle of extra sauce was served as hot as the food in front of me.
“How is evah-thang?”

“THIS was worth the drive,” I managed between bulging chews of tender beef. “I haven’t had better in all of Dallas/Ft. Worth” and I meant it. I left a generous tip at the table and proceeded to the cashier to check out.

“How was evah-thang?”
“I just came from Herd’s.”

I let that one hang in the air for a minute as she jerked her head up from the register, not quite sure if she had heard me right. Then I dropped the other shoe. “And I was still hungry.” The slack-jawed look of amazement on her face, another handsome blonde said it all. And I had to allow that part of her shock was in that a competitor but still a member of her town had treated someone so badly. To her it clearly was unheard of.

I offered to her that Jacksboro seemed a nice place to which she replied that indeed it was full of friendly people. The implied apology on Herd’s behalf was received and accepted. “We’re glad to have your business.”

“You will again,” I said. “With friends.”

The Dairyland is not on the list of “world famous” pits strung through Central Texas which constitute the Texas BBQ Trail but they seem just fine with that. Like hundreds across the region they simply are what they are and are proud to do what they do. For my part I will do all possible to drag spoiled big-city friends to Jacksboro just for the Dairyland Drive In. Jacksboro itself was never in question. The people, the service and the food at the Dairyland more than made sure of that.


Gotta go!


Dairyland Drive In
323 S Main St, Jacksboro, TX
Tel: (940) 567-3705

Death to Breakfast

There was a time when the power lunch was as much a part of the daily business routine as morning rush hour. A "per diem" or daily allowance pretty much meant whatever the traveling salesman or busy executive wanted so long as they got the job done and brought home the whale. The scene from the film "Pleasantville" comes to mind where the idealized world of the Nelsons, Cleavers and Andersons all sat down together for breakfast, a meal that would take all day to prepare and the rest of the night to sleep off: pancakes, ham, sausage, bacon, eggs, toast, butter, jam, milk, orange juice and coffee, don't forget the syrup. More than a bit over-exaggerated perhaps but the message was the good life in a land of plenty. Every meal featured meat and potatoes instead of granola and green tea.

The last holdout of this by-gone era seems to be the breakfast buffet at the larger business hotels around the country where even some of them have either eliminated the costly practice all together or, in the case of the Embassy Suites, offer a continental buffet with eggs cooked to order. Their thinking in the one price for all option is people will belly up to endless helpings of self-serve food but maybe make only one trip to the chef in the interest of time and self-discipline.

What is harder to find is a company willing to foot the bill for compulsive over-eating or the rates some hotels charge for that excess which with tip can equal the total daily allowance in just one meal. I once worked for a major company based out of Chicago that limited all meal expenses to $25 per day. We were "forgiven" for going over that amount up to $50 per day if we happened to be traveling overseas. For me in Japan on one occasion that meant the 900-Yen pancakes at the hotel for breakfast and the rest for dinner while hoping that our hosts would pick up the tab for lunch. They did, along with their counterparts on a subsequent trip to Paris later that year. I would have starved otherwise.

Part of today's office gossip around the water cooler amusingly includes interpretations on the meal expense policy of various companies around the country. Not only is there a question on how much is spent but also whether or not there are specific limits to each meal, if lunch is included or if there is simply a flat amount the employee can spend each day to cover all dining no matter which meal or how many.

To be sure, lunch, dinner and holiday buffets can be found from the smallest to the largest towns in America. Indian and Chinese buffets are not known for American-style breakfasts but must surely build their business model around the lunch rush where they go begging for business after 3PM. The bottom line is that in this day and age of rush and on-the-go, few of us have time for more than a McMuffin or a power bar in the morning. The full breakfast is losing its grip on our psyche as well as our stomachs.

But not completely for there will always be room for bacon!

Gotta go.

Jacked in Jacksboro

Bad service is ugly and sad. Yet sometimes in the midst of unfortunate circumstance shines a moment of human hope and beauty. This is one of those stories.

Herd’s Hamburgers, family owned for three generations, has drawn the likes of NFL players and politicians alike. I was hungry and had heard about this hidden hamburger hamlet famed through-out North Texas in a side-of-the-road town of Jacksboro, Texas, roughly 65 miles northwest of Fort Worth. With no major plans one Saturday afternoon I burned a couple of CD mixes for the car and headed northwest under testy skies.
Along with the first 4-H Club Jacksboro offers the historic Fort Richardson, preserved just south of town. It anchored the middle of a line of frontier posts forming part of the historic Texas Forts Trail. At stake was western expansion into fiercely protected Comanche and Kiowa territory thru central and northern Texas and in to southern Oklahoma.

It is possible to drive right past Herd's on the north end of town. The sign out front is faded from age and a dirt parking lot pitted with water holes from a recent rain preceded a two-story building set back from the road with three weather beaten picnic tables out front. It was completely unassuming and filled with equally unaffected regulars who barely glanced up from their meal as I headed for the door and the sweetest Texas plains accent ever heard.

Inside two young fathers corralled four tow-headed boys to some of the seats to await their food while one thick-accented man ahead of me ordered a “Dubba-meet chaise-burger with evah-thang own it” from the handsome matriarch taking orders at the register.

“Hi, how’re yew today? Can I take yer order, please?”
“Hi, I’m doing fine thank you. I’d like a single cheeseburger with everything, please, no pickle.”
“With chips and a drank that’ll be fahve-twenny. Will you be eatin’ here?”
“Yes, I’ll eat outside. Thank you.”
“And 80 makes six, seven, ayte, nyne and tin is twenny dollars, thenk yew. I NEED ONE!”

Flo from "Alice" couldn't have done it any better; I truly love the sounds of Texas!

The order for the fathers and sons came out carried three to a bare hand and wrapped in straining white waxed paper. Right behind theirs came mine. I squeezed out of the schoolchair and headed outside to an empty picnic table where I opened my prize to find...

Nothing. There was no burger. Slack-jawed from hunger and amazement I gazed at loose crumblings of meat barely covering the bottom bun. Where was the ginormous monstrosity like the two fathers got? I couldn’t be staring at the “ONE!” shouted back to the kitchen when I placed my order? No, this broken down crumble struck me as either way over-hyped or the kind of snake-oil product one gives to unwelcome strangers.

Sadly, Herd's has heard the last of me. People will drive to the edge of civilization in search of the world's best hamburger; in that light there should be no question about a product 90 years in the making. I finished up and made to leave but not before the bravest of the four boys from inside came up to me as they were leaving and insisted on telling me about how “th’uther day mu’ deddy shot a skunk!”

“Good thing he didn’t spray you or you’d be three-days in th’ tub.” He pondered my words thoughtfully, nodded in their wisdom, smiled at me and then ran to join the rest of his troupe piling in to their Hummer. Smile fading, I followed them out and headed south towards home, disappointed in my experience and still hungry.

On the way out of town I saw again a sign I noticed in passing while heading for Herd's. It said Dairyland BBQ. "Self?" I said to myself, "Ya might wanna try that place one day!"

Gotta go!







Herd's Hamburgers



401 N. Main Street



Jacksboro, TX 76548

Lucille's Wasn't A Guitar

Put California and food together in the same sentence these days and it's hard not to automatically envision sculpted or anemic people counting the grains of wheat germ, eating sprouts with chop sticks or spritzing a carrot stick with a light vinaigrette and chasing it with a no-salt daiquiri. "Real food" usually comes with cut limes and a pineapple garnish, clay-oven baked at the most but never - not even tempura - fried. The Redwoods and Sequoias are preserved not from logging but from the locals seeking a high fiber diet to go with their organic tofu.

But I digress. And I stand astoundingly corrected. In Orange County, California, center of the world for barely breathing haute couture - Laguna Hills Mall is not even a mile away - sits "Lucille's BBQ." Despite today's international reputation for "light," "fusion" and organic foods that barely register with the digestive system the history of California cooking comes straight from the comfort cuisine and survival sustenance. From south of the border come tacos, gorditos and burritos while north of Fresno, 49er country, comes grilled meats over an open fire and washed down with pure spring water moonshine!

Lucille's is of the latter ancestry, originating in the kitchen of one Lucille Buchanan who came up at her grandmother's knee in Greenville, California, learning and perfecting the recipes patrons enjoy at a dozen restaurants around the state. My traveling companion and I found the one in Lake Forest while on our way south to San Diego and few road stops were ever worth the time as much as this place.

Never mind the atmosphere, which was typical for a barbecue restaurant with hard woods, nostalgic touches and oldies music. This place knows the money is in the meat and they do not disappoint. Whenever I try a new barbecue joint I go for the sampler plate, wanting to see how things go across the beef, pork and poultry groups. The combo platter was nearly a steal, plain and simple, with a smooth sauce that simply defied belief or expectation while the meats were fork tender and bone clean.

The one thing shared between this restaurant and other establishments right down to the hole-in-the-wall set-ups is "mopping." I don't know if it is a unique West Coast style but where the argument back east is between dry rub and wet sauces, the sauce is typically ladled, poured, infused, steeped or squirted on to the meat from bottles. Californians literally use a clean mop handle to brush paint the sauce over the meat before serving. The longer they use the mop the more saturated it becomes with sauce and the easier and faster it is to serve up one delectable plate after the other.

At first I thought Lucille's referred to a certain famous blues guitar since I'm from back east where the blues and barbecue go together like nothing else unless you add beer. After this meal I can easily believe and recall the glory days of northern California's gold rush but still wonder at the success of the place in Orange County! It's there and it's real so go and see for yourself if you want solid food in or near sexy Santa Ana.

And if you don't believe me, just have some guac with that heaping helping of ginger root and rosemary infused olive oil.

Gotta go!

Seafood, San Diego Style

I must admit to being somewhat spoiled when it comes to eating out. As a military brat I grew up in the heart of Europe and became accustomed at an early age to what authentic foods should taste like, from hearty German fare to Italian and even plain but discerning fish and chips. As adult I've lived in several regions of the United States which has only served to heighten that level of expectation to the point of simply not eating some foods unless I happen to be in the part of the country where the dish first came from. Lobster in Boston, Cuban in Florida, Tex-Mex in Texas and deep dish pizza in Chicago come readily to mind. I'm just happy barbecue is pretty much unique all across the country!

Obviously the good thing about this strategy is being reasonably guaranteed that an authentic dish won't be "regionalized" according to local preferences for more or less spice or whatever. The downside, though, can sometimes have those reasonable expectations disappointed just as easily for whatever reason, too much hype or just a bad day in the kitchen.

My boss and I had recently wrapped up a very successful trip together to California, doing meet-and-greets at several office locations around Southern California. While casting around for a place to dine that evening it was decided that Anthony's Fish Grotto would be a nice, per diem friendly place to mark all of our hard work. Well situated on the waterfront overlooking Coronado with central downtown just behind, Anthony's is one of the more popular restaurants in San Diego, having drawn a faithful following for over 60 years.

Boss-Lady and I felt that these people must know good seafood and what better city than to experience it than San Diego where a nice mix of traditional mixed with Baja offerings might be in the cards. Boss-Lady also happens to be of fisherman stock in Florida so she is finely attuned to what acceptable seafood is and is not. Both of us were in a forgiving week regarding our seating as the prior week had been taxing in itself. At the height of the dinner rush and with no reservations we took the offered side table along the main corridor instead of waiting an hour for a table by the window.

While we accepted lower-tier seating we were not impressed with the rushed service from our waitress. No time to smile it was the kind of service that stopped long enough to take drink orders on the way to doing something else. The drinks were brought along with more hurry-it-up attitude as we placed our dinner orders from the lengthy but surprisingly uninspired menu.

We would have done better with fish tacos from Wahoo's, a local fast food chain famous for these Baja treats from right near the border. The cod was unremarkable, the calamari appetizer ordinary and the king crab cold and tough. At least the drawn butter was hot and golden.

San Diego is a delightful city and we both allowed that tonight must simply have been an off night. Neither of us live there, however, so a repeat visit to San Diego might be in the cards but turning up at one of Anthony's competitors seems a guarantee.

Gotta go.

Tsukiji, Tokyo

Tokyo used to be the largest city in the world. There is no denying upon first sight that the place defies both logic and the imagination. An ancient capital festooned with one-way streets to confuse the emperor's enemies, a third of it was destroyed in the war but to them the logical thing to do was to rebuild it exactly as it was before. There is no zoning in the city so it is not at all unusual to see a single-family home made of wood and cross beams directly across the street from some of the tallest office towers in the country.

What Tokyo does have is the largest wholesale fish market in the world and that is "Tsukiji (Skee-gee)." Under one massive room comes marine life from across the planet in volumes to provide some 95% of the seafood enjoyed by the nearly 13 million good people of Greater Tokyo. It's not for early riser or the squeamish and is certainly not a tourist attraction in any way, shape or form but it is tolerant of the curious who respect the rules and rhythm of the place, mainly to not touch the products and absolutely to stay out of the way of the trading.

The liveliest action is when the tuna catch arrives between 1AM and four in the morning. Massive flash-frozen carcasses are carted hither and yon to bidding rooms where the callers put any auctioneer in Britain or New York to complete shame. The Japanese language is tricky enough, usually spoken at a rapid and staccato clip but speed that up by a factor of 20 and throw in fish jargon on top of that? Oi.
After the buzz and sing-song of the tuna auction though there remains more than a million varieties of aquatic life to ogle, gag and gawk over. Most of the stalls are family owned and typically staffed by a husband-wife team, he doing the legwork and cleaning while she manages the till and keeps the books.

As can be expected many are handed down through the generations so there seems hardly a shortage of young and older sons learning the trade and, of course, doing the harder chores while the old man teaches and protects from the shadier traders on the floor.

The amount and variety of seafood passing through on a daily basis is beyond normal comprehension. Some are frozen, others are gutted on the spot while more than a few types are kept alive for transport to the display tanks of restaurants and retail markets around the city. It seems of all the varieties of squid in the ocean only the giant and the Humboldt squids are not served at the Japanese dinner table - seemingly every other type was there, waiting for the ginger and wasabi. As can be expected there are more than a few sushi bars and restaurants lining the road to the market where the freshest of the fresh can be sampled "day of catch."

All ya gotta do is get up at the crack of or before dawn, find your way to the "Hibiya" metro line and wear clothes that can be destroyed as soon as you leave the place. The smell of fish, fish guts and oils gets in to everything and everyone on the subway, in the streets and back at the hotel will smell you coming just as you can smell the market long before it comes in to view.

By all means stay out of the way. If you don't speak Japanese bring someone who does or at least has been before. They don't have time to deal with tourists and while they tolerate visitors are not there for your amusement or to serve as some kind of information counter. Whether or not you ever eat another piece of fish after that is entirely up to you!

Gotta go.

TV and the Fish Camp

I used to enjoy watching "Flipper" growing up in the late 60s and having never seen a dolphin outside of a zoo before but one show from the period that I really enjoyed was "Gentle Ben," another Florida based sitcom featuring a tame black bear living in the swamps with a park ranger and his young son, another kid my age. All of this was just too cool for words, growing up watching kids like me (I never saw color) having all kinds of adventures from simply skipping rocks (Opie Taylor) to swimming with dolphins to riding those fantastic air boats with a huge bear draped over the front. I've always been a city mouse but wondered even then what life in the country must really be like.

"You've got to go to Clark's," my co-workers sang out in chorus while on a recent trip to Jacksonville, Florida. In keeping with my desire to sample unique local restaurants the immediate recommendation was Clark's Fish Camp & Seafood towards the southern end of the city. The directions, they said, would appear to be misleading but to just stay on Hood Landing, the main road and it would pop up at the very end of the pavement.

Situated on a small inlet near Old Bull Cove of the St. Johns River the description was dead on as we pulled up in front of a building that looked for all the world to be one large boat shack. Clark's is weather worn with graying wood, some Christmas lights strung up to add color and a porch that extended in to a jetty where boats could tie up just as conveniently as any car pulling in to the dirt lot at the back. I witnessed just that as two young boys helped their father tie up their 15-footer in what to them was simply an everyday part of life on the water. It wasn't an air boat and Gentle Ben did not join the family but oh how close the whole scene was!

"This place looks like Porky's" I told my co-worker who came along for dinner. I started looking for the kids from Angel Beach High but didn't see anyone I recognized. No neon piglets frolicked above the door but inside was a virtual zoo of stuffed animals from every corner of the planet: kudus, gazelle, birds and baboons, snakes, gators, lions, tigers and bears, everywhere. All those years of nature programs paid off as we were led to our table by an almost hostile hostess whom our waitress later apologized for. She also explained that no, the animals were not hunted by the owner but merely collected to give the place atmosphere.

Sometimes the atmosphere masks the shortcomings of the food but in this case both were equally kitschy and over the top in terms of variety and size of the portions. I went with a very healthy rib-eye and shared shrimp appetizer while my colleague who eats like a bird ordered me to eat the third crab cake from her meal after she'd finished the first two with a salad. Behind me the Flintstones were enjoying a caveman's special as I watched the father who looked exactly like Fred in a blazer polish off the largest slab of prime rib I'd ever seen at a restaurant with nary a belch to highlight the effort. That, our waitress said, was only the "Joan's Cut," since they were already out of the larger "Jack's Cut." Sheesh!

My colleague was disappointed at not seeing any wild alligators although their presence was suggested through the "Do Not Feed the Gators" signs. For a Monday evening in January Clark's was doing a respectable business with a diverse clientele.


Maybe it was just too cold for the gators.

Gotta go.

Ferraris and Fleming's

Tampa is my favorite city in Florida, let's just get that out of the way right up front. To me it offers the best style and comfort of living without trying to be something it's not. I've been visiting the Tampa area as far back as 1991 so it was with great anticipation that I was sent on a business trip there last August. I phoned up some friends who live in the area and made plans to enjoy a couple of days in the office followed by a weekend re-connecting and enjoying the city.

One friend of mine picked me up at my hotel for dinner that evening and while I said that I could still find my way around, he insisted it would be easier to just come and get me. We hadn't seen each other in a good while and I looked forward to a pleasant evening of catching up over good food. The Cuban community in and around Tampa is nearly as strong as that in Miami but roast pork was not on this evening's menu. Tonight would be my first experience at Fleming's Steakhouse, a favorite of his, along the lines of a Don Shula's or Morton's of Chicago.

I just love the look on the face of the doormen when they rush to open the car door for guests then turn back to look more closely at you to see if you're "somebody" or not. Here comes my chum tooling up in a red Spider, don'tcha know! The last Italian car I might have parked my backside in was a Fiat or an Alfa Romeo at best but nothing and I mean nothing this high on the food chain. The man is clearly doing well for himself I thought as the comical part of the evening started early. That would be watching Mr. Awkward, yours truly, trying to get in to this low-slung roadster with a smidgen of dignity.
It didn't work but by the time we got to the restaurant I'd at least figured out how to alight from the thing with the air of someone who was to the Ferrari born. The valets couldn't get to the car fast enough and where my buddy strode in as any high-profile regular would I turned and gawked right back at the gawkers trying to see if they were "somebody," too.

The maître d' recognized my host and we were seated swiftly at a good table. Things on the celebrity spotting chart got off to a good start when my companion casually pointed out Raheem Morris, the new head coach of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers and another regular at this upscale beef emporium. While the steaks were good Mr. Ferrari was not impressed with our service this evening. The waiter seemed indifferent and pre-occupied and it showed. The manager made the necessary apologies after checking to see how things were going for us; it's always interesting how they always anticipate a positive response to their perfunctory inquiry. She got an ear full from my blunt buddy.

On the way out we got a repeat performance from other guests leaving and arriving. The valets were used to my host and had probably decided quickly enough that I couldn't be much more than a hanger-on. Still, how many times is the valet parked car waiting right outside the door, a mere flick of the keys away as we lowered our sated bellies in to the red beast for the ride back to the hotel?

I knew that much of the score: A Ferrari parked right outside of their front door? That's all any other visitor or pretender needs to see to wanna be seen!

Gotta go!

Eatin' Argentinian

Typically it is always a good thing to give a marginal service at least a second chance to confirm a questionable first impression one way or the other. I say "marginal" because in that instance there was something definitely missing or not right the first time and I want to go back to find out if that is the norm or the exception. On this occasion the second chance was dining at the Gaucho Grille on Canoga Boulevard in Woodland Hills, north of Los Angeles in the San Fernando Valley.

My first experience was back in late August as part of a nationwide business trip I was on at the time. My manager was with me on this leg of the trip and, having dined there the night before, recommended the restaurant to me as a good dining experience from one steak connoisseur to another. Just a short walk across the street from my hotel and offering a dining experience unique from The Cheesecake Factory I ambled in to the low lit, wood paneled establishment to be met with a California-ized version of gaucho-styled waiters in black pants, white shirts and red scarves.

The selection of the evening was the "Bife de Chorizo" which to Argentines loosely translates to the equivalent of a New York strip as opposed to the more familiar Mexican sausage. On a trip to Argentina many moons ago I discovered that not every country cuts its beef in the same style as the United States. A "T-Bone" is virtually unknown south of the border, for instance. I further discovered the different translations in Spanish for the various cuts as well: "chorizo" is a strip steak while "lomo" is more of a tenderloin.

Served a la carte, the steak was just a tad tougher than I prefer but strip steak tends to be leaner and meatier in most cases anyway. The service was professional and discrete but also on the robotic side of things as well: "What would you like, how would you like it cooked, bon appétit." Not much in the way of cultural immersion, explaining the beef tradition of the country or the nuances of each cut but I didn't know what to expect either. All in all, a good but not great experience.

Round Two was earlier this week in mid-December as part of a return visit to the project site I was working in August. A different colleague was with me on this occasion and I hosted the evening meal at the Gaucho Grille to get his reaction as well as give the place a second chance in my own eyes. His choice was the chorizo/strip while I went with the "traditional Argentine cut," the skirt steak or "entrana" served with steamed spinach and fresh broccoli.

My friend ended up cutting about a quarter of his away, describing it as "gristle" which I had not experienced the first time while mine was cooked to order but not nearly as flavorful as the Mexican style I'd come to expect for skirt steak. Again no real "presentation" of the food or the culture but we were able to enjoy a live broadcast of Thursday Night Football during our meal.

Having eaten steaks in Buenos Aires I was disappointed with this representation and my friend's reaction confirmed this as probably the last time I will dine at this chain. Too bad Argentina is so far away but the steaks they enjoy there are alone just about worth the 10 hour flight to get there.

Gotta go!

Schmeckt Gut im Wisconsin

For the first time in my life I was ordered to the great state of Wisconsin in late August on business. I'd lived three years in Chicago and had only traveled to the Land of the Cheese twice, once for dinner and once for a weekend at Lake Geneva. That dinner trip was to a German restaurant in Kenosha that a co-worker's family ordered. The most memorable thing about that trip was that the restaurant was in the same neighborhood as the Jockey underwear factory.

This time around my business was in Milwaukee, home of countless brands and traditions of beer in addition to at least Laverne, Shirley and the Cunningham gang. I was expecting one smoke belching factory after another lining the shores of Lake Michigan wedged in between row upon row of two-story brownstones. What I found was a surprisingly charming city with an attractive downtown area, upscale clubs and restaurants along the canal and row upon row of pubs, clubs, bars and restaurants along Old World 3rd Street. One highly recommended eatery on that road was Mader's German Restaurant.

Traditional German food is not for the faint of heart or the heart healthy so I wasn't expecting so upscale an establishment. Still, the old world, hardwood decor lined with the to-be-expected selection of animal heads, exposed beams and beer steins welcomed me warmly to a country I have long considered a second home. Waitresses in traditional bosom boosting dirndls flitted about the place bearing plates of food and flagons of beer - the only thing missing was the German language itself. Equally and thankfully missing was the polka band, which to me is always out of place anywhere other than a beer hall.

I had had a hankering for Cordon Bleu for the longest time and my taste buds were unequivocally set on the dish of pan-seared veal or chicken breast stuffed with ham and Swiss cheese. Imagine my surprise, then, when this signature dish was nowhere to be found on the menu. The other staples were there, including a hearty goulash, several varieties of sausages and schnitzels, rouladen and roast chicken but no cordon bleu. Imagine my delight when, upon sensing my consternation, the waitress returned to my table after telling the chef of my dilemma and informed me of his decision to prepare my request off-menu and from scratch!

For all of the things Mader's didn't have they truly have it where it absolutely counts the most: ultimate dining flexibility. The food was hot and plentiful with strong presentation and every measure of taste and flavor that I expected. With German food I don't want mild, subtle or suggestive hints of old world goodness. It has to be full bodied, robust and hearty to the last morsel, taking me back thru decades of good memories from nearly every corner of the country.

I went back to Milwaukee three weeks ago on business again for only one night. There was only one choice for supper that evening and this time, half an hour before closing time, the Wiener Schnitzel was even better than the Cordon Bleu.

Gotta go.

The Broken Barrel

I was in the middle of yet another week long trip around the country and had considered myself to be winding things up in Tampa when the call came from boss-lady. I was "invited" to stay on in Florida for another six days and pay visits to our operations centers in Melbourne and Jacksonville. The company was picking up the tab, I'd never been to either place and it would be a chance to see both sides of Florida in the same trip.

Well, I apparently didn't miss much in the translation between eastern and western Florida and the drive between the two was decidedly one of the most un-scenic I'd ever experienced in a state world famous for exactly that - its beaches and scenery! I call the area of central Florida (outside of Disneyworld, of course) marshlands trying to be forest but not quite making it because the trees weren't really tall enough. Sort of like a bald-headed man who wasn't really bald but whose hair wasn't long or thick enough to qualify for any other description.

But I digress. I'm from Texas and we love good barbecue. Driving south along Babcock Road I noticed "Memaw's" Barbecue. I didn't stop but when I got to the office I enquired about the place with building security and was advised that it was merely "ok." Better was available according to the guard in his neck of the woods but that was 20 miles farther north. One of the administrators overheard our conversation and all but ordered me to dine at The Broken Barrel Tavern instead only a few miles to the south in Palm Bay.

Was it ever worth it! Melbourne isn't the biggest truck stop on the highway and if you stayed on either US-1 or I-95 on your way somewhere else you'd miss it entirely. It looks and feels as if it were built to serve a wide variety of purposes, from banquet hall to big-screen sports bar with tables and chairs thrown in beside a room for darts and several pool tables in the back. Center stage to all of this is a massive serving bar that boasts over 340 types of beer in bottles and on tap from 15 countries throughout Australia, Europe (seemingly more from Belgium than anywhere else), North America and Asia. Prices by the glass ranged from suburban swill to hops haute cuisine for anything from Singha to Schlitz and Samuel Adams to Sapporo, Becks and back. One that caught my eye was a concoction called "Youngs Double Chocolate Stout?!" I'm just glad I don't drink!

No one working seemed over the age of 25 or particularly concerned about their appearance but the service was quick and the recommendations right on target. Who'da thunk to actually smoke chicken wings but theirs is done in a dry rub typically reserved for Memphis-style ribs with equally scintillating effect. My waiter admitted to never eating a fried wing again once he'd tried the house specialty and I couldn't disagree. Choose from one of four unique barbecue or hot sauces served on the side to dip ("Cuz ya won't really need it!") and this non-descript hole in the wall beside the Goodwill Store truly serves up Solomon's gold.

Melbourne in November is a ghost town compared to the volumes it must receive in the high season. I even asked what anyone would visit Melbourne for that couldn't be found in Daytona, Palm Beach or Miami. It is the closest major town to Cape Canaveral but that didn't convince me since it is possible to day-trip there from Orlando. What none of the other towns have, though, is the Broken Barrel: smoked wings (plus 340 types of beer) that should NOT be the best kept secret in town!

Gotta go!