When you’re on the road on a motorcycle, there’s something
about biscuits and gravy in the morning.
You may not normally spend much time in roadside cafes and restaurants
when you’re at home, going about your normal existence, but when you’re on the
road, it’s every morning, at a different place.
And while you might not normally order biscuits and gravy at the fern
bar where you normally stop for a local breakfast, when you’re on the road on a
motorcycle it’s important to eat plenty of carbs to stave off the effects of
the wind and supply the increased physical demands of the act of riding. That’s why biscuits and gravy may become your
choice, even if you’re not in a truck.
My preference has always been the local joint, not part of
any chain, filled with the local folks, whom it must keep happy to stay in
business, and so the food they offer becomes a reflection of what the local
folks decide is reasonable and good. Biscuits
and gravy is like a bellwether for small towns.
Somewhere near the Mason-Dixon line you start seeing grits on your plate every time, no matter what you order. In California it’s an avocado. Anywhere within 3,000 nautical miles of Boise, Idaho it’s hash browns, lots of ‘em. But they all have biscuits and gravy on the menu.
Somewhere near the Mason-Dixon line you start seeing grits on your plate every time, no matter what you order. In California it’s an avocado. Anywhere within 3,000 nautical miles of Boise, Idaho it’s hash browns, lots of ‘em. But they all have biscuits and gravy on the menu.
So a memorable road trip includes not only the memories of
the places you went, the people who rode with you and the ones you saw along
the way, and of course the weather, but also the food you ate at the various
road side joints along the way. Not to
mention the beer you drank at the end of the day when the riding was over.
And it is natural that in the course of many an idle
conversation after a nice dinner and over a beer and a campfire surrounded by
tents that the topics would flow to those of most critical importance, such as
where to find the best biscuits and gravy in the country.
My riding buddy, Marty, says that the source of the best
biscuits and gravy in the country is the Two Mile Café in Albany, Oregon, while
I contend that the actual source is none other than the Tastee-Freeze in
Laurel, Montana. Allow me to state my
case, if you will.
The best way to sharpen your appetite for breakfast is to
roll out of your fart sack as the sun breaks the horizon over the KOA where you
slept and spend the next interval breaking down your camp and getting coffeed
and cleaned up, then hit the road in the early chill of an August morning in
western Montana, or any one of dozens of similar places in any other
state. Ride at least 30 miles or so up
the canyon, where the sunny spots almost get you warm enough to be ready for
the next shady spot where the temperature drops so fast you start to shake in
anticipation.
In our case it was that stretch of I-90 west from Rapid City
on the way home from Sturgis on a Sunday morning, and the spot on the map was
Wolf Creek, Montana. But when we pulled
off the highway and down the single main street of the town, it quickly became
obvious that there was nothing open, no choice but to get back on the road and
head West and see what turned up.
By the time we rolled off the freeway in Laurel, the next
town down the line, we were hungry enough to look hard at the next sheep that
crossed the road in front of us, and the only choice appeared to be the
Tastee-Freeze. I was consoled by the
number of rigs with Montana plates on them in the parking lot, which surrounded
a building that was longer than it looked from the front, so in we went, five
hungry bikers who had been camped in the dirt for the last ten days, and sat
down with the town for their after-church Sunday morning breakfast.
I ordered the biscuits and gravy, of course. Nothing else was going to stand a chance
against the hollow ache in my midsection, that and lots of coffee.
As we warmed up over the hot coffee, conversation in the
restaurant, which was mostly full, slowly built back up from the shocked hush
that had greeted our arrival. Then the
food came, and I ascended into a state of nirvana, or culinary bliss, or
some equivalent spasm of delight. The
biscuits were huge, and fresh out of the oven, split and covered with gravy,
oh, such gravy! It was the gravy of
kings, the gravy of huntsmen on a cold morning before a fox hunt in
Staffordshire, full of big chunks of the local sausage, served at the perfect temperature
and accompanied by an impressive wad of hash browns to share in the
wealth. Even the toast was home made.
As I basked in that warm feeling of perfect satiety after a
feast, secure in the knowledge that I was set for the day’s hard ride to come, something
came over me, and I got up and walked to the front of the restaurant. I said to the man at the register, perhaps a
bit louder than I might have intended, “Let me speak to the chef.” He hesitated, and I repeated, “I want to talk
to the cook.”
He disappeared into the kitchen and a woman came out wiping
her hands on her apron and said, “I’m the cook.
Is there anything wrong?” In the
back of my mind, I noticed that the restaurant was dead quiet behind me. I asked her, “Did you make that biscuits and
gravy?” “Yes, I did,” she said, “Is
anything wrong?” I said, with a smile,
“Ma’am, that was the best biscuits and gravy I have ever had in the entire
state of Montana, thank you very much!”
Her face lit up and she smiled and thanked me, as the assembled
customers all laughed at their tables and my wife made faces at me from our
booth. I went and hid in the bathroom.
Of course, I realize the fatal flaw with the idea that you
could decide once and for all just who makes the best biscuits and gravy in the
country, which is that you can’t rightly say until you’ve tried them all,
right?
So the search will go on, even if the goal remains as
elusive as the rewards of the search are rich.
Any tips that could lead to a contender for the crown are welcome. :-{)}
