Mallards Restaurant & Lounge

Mallards Restaurant & Lounge
at Templin’s Red Lion Inn
414 E 1st Ave., Post Falls,
773-1611

"The Account of Monte Cristo"

Like a dreamy soft-focus fantasy, a certain sandwich will forever occupy a special place in my head and heart. Tender sliced Ham and Turkey is covered with melted cheese on thick-sliced egg bread, then dipped in it's entirety in French toast batter and deep fried. It’s usually sprinkled with powdered sugar and must be served with a side of strawberry jelly. It’s the sandwich at it’s most refined and elegant, adding some jazz to its older, stodgier French cousin, the Croque Monsieur, a simple grilled ham and Swiss, and taking it to the outer edge of the flavor stratosphere.

The Monte Cristo first appeared on American menus in southern California in the 1950’s. Its placement on the menus of the Blue Bayou and Tahitian Terrace restaurants in New Orleans Square in Disneyland was the big Hollywood break the sandwich needed. Suddenly it became "in vogue" across the country in a golden era when 1500 calories and endless grams of fat meant nothing to anyone. Eventually, its glory days faded and currently it's a bit of a relic, a rare thing to see listed on an average menu among the BLT's and Grilled Chicken Clubs.

The Monte Cristo seemed to be everywhere we dined when I was growing up in the '70's and early 80's, and I was in love with it even back then. I fondly remember my grandparents frequently taking me to eat at TJ's Pantry, located in the North Shore Hotel, now the Coeur d'Alene Resort. Unlike its current incarnation Dockside, the place was dark and cave-like, done in weird browns and oranges and closer in spirit to a greasy spoon. I remember always enjoying a Monte Cristo with a big pile of fries, then sneaking off to play Space Invaders and ride the elevator up and down all seven floors, then a popular local pastime.

Out of the blue the craving hit recently, and it hit hard. I racked my brain, unable to even remember the last time I’d enjoyed a nice Monte Cristo, let alone where it might have been. I poked around the web looking at menus and uncovered a handful of clues. Granny’s Pantry in Rathdrum has them, but I think I’m still banished from that town. Beverly’s offers them as well, but their version strays too far into gourmet territory for me by bringing in things like Boursin cheese and Huckleberry-Pear butter. Finally, I was tipped off that Mallards Restaurant inside Templins Resort in Post Falls had the classic, quintessential version I was looking for.

I hadn’t been to Mallards since a random Mother’s Day approximately ten years ago, and the place remains unchanged. The long aisles of floral upholstered chairs and mirrored walls still exude a vague sense of 80’s high class, but a tell-tale layer of dust and drear makes the place cry for an update. Still, the huge bay windows face a gorgeous view of the Spokane River and provide some sunlight in the otherwise drab neo-Victorian space. We crept in during the lull between lunch and dinner on a weekday and had the entire silent dining room to ourselves. I flipped open my menu long enough to spot the magic words “Monte Cristo.” Finally, a coup!

My lunch partner was a Monte Cristo virgin and had listened to me rave about them for the previous hour, so of course he wanted one too. But I like to be able to taste a couple of different things, so I tried to get him to order something else. Mallards has a wide selection of reasonably priced breakfast, lunch, and dinner specialties and has always had a good reputation as a fine dining experience. “Mmmm, the Crab and Lobster melt sounds great, doesn’t it? How about the Black and Bleu burger, maybe some of their “famous” fish and chips,” I suggested. Regardless, my friend was stuck on playing copycat, so two Monte Cristos it was.

We felt a strange connection to Vickie, our waitress, as if she were a kindred spirit, facilitating our path toward Monte Cristo enlightenment. She’d given us a warm, all-knowing gaze when we’d ordered, and somehow guessed that we both wanted Pepsi before we even had a chance to say so. Our lunches arrived fast and we instantly dug in. One divine bite and it became clear that Vickie was our sandwich angel and that we’d died and gone to deep fried heaven on earth. It was the long-awaited realization of my dreamy soft-focus Monte Cristo childhood fantasy.

There's something cosmic about the contrasts involved. It's the warm gushiness of the inside versus the golden crispiness of the fried outer layer. It’s the cool sweetness of the strawberry jam versus the smoky ham and turkey and tang of the creamy melted layers of American and Swiss cheeses. Disney himself would be proud to be associated with the Mallards version of his favorite guilty pleasure. Likewise, the accompanying Chicken Coconut Curry soup was tremendous, filled with tender rice and just enough spice. The steak fries, nearly lost in all the excitement, were golden crisp and perfect and made a great sidekick for the star attraction.

Despite the relative heaviness of our meals, we felt refreshed and soul-satisfied, like we’d just been to some kind of exclusive spiritual retreat. “Good stuff?” Vickie asked as she cleared our empty plates and we had to laugh at her understatement. We bid her adieu and she nodded as if she knew for certain we’d be back soon for more of her inspirational Monte Cristo treatment.

Panhandle Café

Panhandle Café,
7168 Main Street,
Bonners Ferry
208-267-2623

Don't Go Chasing Waterfalls, Please Stick to the Diners and the Drive-ins You're Used To.

I manned a local tourist info hut for a while, and people would ask me an odd question from time to time. “How much does it cost to ride that ferry boat up north a ways from here? I can’t remember what it’s called; I saw it on the map,” they’d inquire. “You mean Bonners Ferry?” I’d reply, knowingly. They’d nod their heads in recognition. “Actually, that’s just the name of the town. The ferries quit running about a hundred years ago. There’s just a bridge now. “Aw, really?” they’d sigh disappointedly, and I’d tell them about the town’s nifty “Barber Ship”, but few paid attention, their minds having already wandered toward the next tourist trap on their list.

Ferry-less Bonners Ferry was the first stop recently on our recent sunny day trip to explore the northernmost parts of Idaho. We wanted to see some waterfalls, so I’d spent the prior evening researching online, even going as far as to make a Google map pinpointing all the regional falls I could find. Most of them are in Boundary county, so Bonners Ferry seemed like a natural place to stop and grab some lunch before heading deep into the lush green wilderness the afternoon. We cruised into the historic downtown area to find it alive with people meandering around enjoying the warm spring weather, from patrons at an outdoor farmer’s market, to friendly felons in bright orange jumpsuits, smiling and waving cheerfully as they picked up litter and mowed the courthouse lawn.

The trip to Bonners usually seems pretty quick, but it took us nearly an hour to get through Sandpoint due to the traffic gridlock of the “Lost in the 50’s” gala. We’d been in the car so long that when we pulled up to the Panhandle Café for lunch, we had to duck walk in with stiff, painful legs. We felt like a couple of old geezers but we’re nowhere near as ancient as the Panhandle Café, which is like a wonderful way back machine to about forty years ago.

“Wow, that’s real Naugahyde”, amazed Q. looking at the sea of shiny brown booths. I humored him, “Yeah, so much better than the fake stuff.” Pies gleamed from inside steel and glass coolers affixed to the wall behind the linoleum counter, next to a collection of old fashioned milkshake makers, soda machines, coffee brewers, milk dispensers and soft-serve ice cream squirters that make this historic eatery so delightfully retro.

The place was lively and we claimed a quiet spot near the kitchen where we could plan our waterfall chasing adventure. I gasped in horror at the large display of Cabbage Patch Dolls set up across from our table, all staring back with glowing eyes like the children in “Village of the Damned.” Nice touch. Our waiter Ryan was fantastic, his youth in stark contrast to his surroundings and much of his clientele. “Would you gentlemen like something besides water?” he offered. Gentlemen? Wow, I wasn’t sure if I should feel flattered or just elderly. Our coffee came and we began analyzing the extensive menu.

The Panhandle Café serves exactly the kind of traditional fare one would expect to be served in 1974, a good year for diner food. The cut-off time for Breakfast is 11 a.m., so come early to sample the Muffin Sandwich, the Shrimp and Swiss Omelet, or the Woodchopper’s Special, a giant combo starring pancakes, eggs, and bacon or sausage. Come later for dinner and investigate the Top Sirloin or Teriyaki Streak with a baked potato, green salad, and garlic toast or a basket of Chicken Drummies. I ordered the clam strips and fries, and decided to make it a double clam whammy by ordering a cup of clam chowder. Q. strayed from his normal Bacon Cheeseburger jones and requested their BBQ’d Beef Sandwich, switching from potato salad to fries at the last minute.
Only moments later, Ryan tangoed out of the kitchen with our hot plates. “Anything else right now, sir?” he piped. Sir? Okay, I’m officially old now. Oh well, who cares when you’ve got homemade clam chowder so hot and thick and bursting with flavor and creaminess. Whole tender clams and melt-in-your-mouth potato chunks mate in sheer ecstasy for the taste buds. Yes, I’m raving; it was the best clam chowder I think I’ve ever had.

Meanwhile, my clam strips were tasty but quite greasy, swimming in a shallow pool of cooking oil on a crisp lettuce leaf. I didn’t think the fries were terrible at all, but Q. rejected his, wishing he’d gone for the potato salad instead. His BBQ Beef Sandwich rated much better, but was messy enough to end up down the arms of even a consciously neat eater like Q. We left full and satisfied both with our lunch and the friendly service, ready to see some waterfalls.

We quickly realized the Google map I’d so meticulously put together was useless. iPhones receive no signal in the middle of nowhere where waterfalls tend to be. The drive was gorgeous with the still-snowy Selkirks hovering above, but we felt aimless, trying to go by memory, just looking for clues. Finally, we spied a sign for an overlook point above Moyie Falls. We could hear but not quite see a waterfall somewhere down in the bushes, but sadly the main sight was a poor dead kitty abuzz with flies that someone had heartlessly tossed into the ravine. With that, we began our trek homeward, having decided that from now we would heed the advice of those great 90’s philosophers TLC and just stick to the rivers and lakes that we’re used to.

Eagles Saturday Market

Saturday Arts & Crafts Market
Coeur d’Alene Eagles Lodge
209 Sherman Ave., Cd’A

There was rarely a dull moment or a dull pair of Fiskars growing up in a home with a woman who has deservedly earned herself the title “Queen of Crafts.” For as far back as memory serves, my mother dabbled in nearly every arts and crafts trend to cross the cultural radar in the last four decades.

While doll making was a constant over the years, there were different craft epochs in our household. First there was the dark, hairy Precambrian age of Macramé, when rope-art owls with big beady eyes ruled the sunken den and ivies entwined themselves around dusty rust-colored plant hangers. The subsequent Paleozoic Mod Podge era of decoupage, dried flowers, and dry-bean-and-noodle art was followed by the brief-but-important Triassic Stained Glass period, complete with light table and welding torch. Soon these primitive tools were replaced by a variety of saws and sanders for use in creating wood shapes for toll painting. In the 80’s, no suburban home was complete without a fake wooden watermelon with the weary greeting “Welcome” hot-glued to its face.

Arts and crafts have made somewhat of a comeback recently, especially among hip individuals who read ReadyMade magazine and flood internet sites like etsy and artfire with out-there concepts like tequila scented soy candles in shot glasses or hot pink crocheted Princess Leia earmuffs for dogs. Making stuff is fun, a constructive and therapeutic alternative to spending hours in front of the widescreen playing Grand Theft Auto 4 for Playstation 3. It’s unlikely that making hand-stamped, linocut Arbor Day greeting cards will pay for too many Riviera vacations or buy massive amounts of bling and Cadillacs. However, you might be able to at least make back your initial investment and possibly pad your pockets with a little extra cash.

Longtime Coeur d’Alene resident Madeleine Bessette came up with the idea to create a venue for local artsy and crafty types to sell their goods after submitting her rock-and-feather jewelry to the downtown co-ops only to be told there was simply no more space. She had tried the local outdoor Farmer’s Market but after watching her inventory blow away in the wind one too many times, she decided it was more trouble than it was worth. After hearing similar complaints from other merchants, including a candy maker who saw their chocolate treats melt away in the summer heat, she was inspired to create an alternative Saturday marketplace.

“With the way the economy is today, I was looking for a good way to help artists and other local vendors have an affordable way to show their wares,” says Bessette. She was looking for an indoor location, someplace where they might be willing to share her vision despite her complete lack of budget. Ironically, when she approached the Eagles Lodge in downtown Coeur d’Alene about using their cavernous dining room, they asked her how much it was going to cost them. Bessette laughs, recalling how she told them “Nothing at all, just keep the electricity on and unlock the door, and I’ll handle the rest.”

Going a step further, she decided to hand over all money collected for table rent directly to the Eagles, who in turn will donate it to the various charities they support. It’s a winning situation for all parties involved. The artists and craftsmen will have a low-cost opportunity to display and sell their goods away from the whims of the weather. The Eagles Lodge will earn some needed cash toward funding to find cures for heart disease, diabetes and cancer. Plus, visitors will be able to snag unique mementos with a lot more pizzazz than ceramic mugs or “Core-Duh-Lane” t-shirts and a lot less expensive than a Stephen Lyman painting. Bessette explains further, saying “there are many places for tourists to buy typical souvenirs. I like the idea of actually meeting the person who made the item. They’ll return home with something that represents North Idaho with a face to attach to it and maybe a story to tell.”

Bessette only has a few simple rules for qualification; items must be created in North Idaho and be approximately 80% hand made. Along with jewelry and candy, items available on opening day next weekend will include hand-stitched purses and baby items, candles, carved wooden birds, flower seed greeting cards and lots of items with local flavor, like “Idaho potato bags.” One young girl, who is splitting the cost of a table with a friend, makes paintings on old CDs and DVDs and turns them into magnets. Now, why didn’t I think of that? Actually, after brainstorming ideas, I’ve decided I may rent a table to peddle the fruit of my latest hobby, making cigarette cases out of Hudson’s Hamburger wrappers.

The Eagles Saturday Market takes place every Saturday, May 23 through Sept 5, from11am-3pm. For more info contact Madeleine Bessette at 208-765-8526.

I ♥ Monte Cristos

Tender sliced Ham and Turkey with melted Swiss or Gruyere cheese on thick-sliced white bread, then dipped in it's entirety in egg batter and cooked like French toast. Sprinkle with powdered sugar and serve with a side of strawberry jelly for dipping. It's a lovely concept, birthed in France under the name Croque Monsieur. The name "Monte Cristo" is thought to be a tribute to the French novel The Count of Monte Christo by Alexander Dumas. Oui, oui! C'est delicieuse!

The Monte Cristo is believed to have first appeared on American menus in southern California in the 1950s. In 1966, it appeared on the menus of the Blue Bayou and Tahitian Terrace restaurants in New Orleans’s Square in Disneyland. This was the big break the sandwich needed; suddenly it became "in vogue" in an era when the fact that contains at least 1500 calories and endless grams of fat meant nothing to anyone. Gradually, it's popularity dwindled and now-a-days it's quite an unusual thing to see listed there among the BLT's and Grilled Chicken Clubs.

I recall Monte Cristos being everywhere when I was young in the '70's and early 80's. In fact, I remember specifically my grandparents frequently taking me to eat at TJ's Pantry, located in the North Shore Hotel, now the Coeur d'Alene Resort. That place was dark and cavernous, done in browns and oranges and closer in spirit to a greasy spoon than the comparatively fancy offerings of Dockside. Anyway, I remember always ordering the Monte Cristo with a big pile of fries, then sneaking off to play Space Invaders in the arcade area next to the indoor pool while my grandparents drank pot after pot of coffee and chainsmoked.

There's something refined about the contrasts involved. It's the sweetness of the powdered sugar and jam versus the tang and salt of the ham and cheese. It's the warm gushiness of the inside versus the golden crispiness of the fried outer layer. I want!

I searched the web looking for local places that still serve this now-rare delicacy and found what I found listed below. I'm thinking there must be more, so if you've encountered the lusty Monte Cristo somewhere I didn't mention, please do share in the comments section. I'm thinking I'll try at least these place's offerings for a future Get Out column dedicated to mon sandwich de l'amour.

Granny's Pantry in Rathdrum lists a Monte Cristo for $8.95

Beverly's Monte Cristo is described as "smoked Hillshire ham, Boursin cheese, smoked cheddar, ovenroasted turkey breast served with huckleberry-pear butter and spicy raspberry jam" and goes for 10 bucks.

Wolf Lodge Inn has a Grilled Monte Cristo for 11 dollars that is "tender ham, turkey, swiss and cheddar on egg bread, accompanied by our own special raspberry sauce."

About Mallards Restaurant in Red Lion Templin's Hotel, Ron Nilson was quoted as saying "the omelettes are topnotch and their Monte Cristo sandwiches are a rare find elsewhere these days"

Where else?

Gateway Café

Gateway Café
126 10th St., Plummer,
208-686-1314‎

We Came, We Saw, We Sniffed, We Ate Pickle Chips.

To the owner of Gateway Café: Christina really deserves a raise, or at least a big hug and some dark chocolate. The poor girl found herself in the undesirable position of running the entire front of the house solo on a busy Sunday, but she held it together with a stoic smile superglued to her face. She had us a little worried at first, as we hovered in the entry way for a few long minutes waiting in vain for guidance. A customer finally said we could just sit wherever and the waitress would eventually find us. We shimmied into the only booth left open, located directly next to the restrooms.

“Mmm. Smells like Smarties.” mentioned Q. I took a deep sniff of the air and grimaced slightly. ”Smarties? You mean, like the candy?” I had to clarify first, just to make sure. “Yeah, smells yummy!” he bubbled. “Um, I hate to ruin your little moment,” I sighed wearily, “but what you smell is a fresh toilet mint wafting at us from the men’s room. Yummy, indeed.” “Oh,” he winced, “never mind.”

The Gateway Café’s theme is “God Bless America.” The walls are painted patriotic red, white, and blue and American flag gewgaws mingle with framed photos of military friends and relatives on active duty. “In God we trust, all others pay cash,” announces a sign near the door. It’s not exactly Ruth’s Chris Steak House, but it is clean and comfortable. In fact, I’ve don’t think I’ve ever sat in such a relaxing, spacious booth seat. It was overstuffed and it sucked me right in; I never wanted to get up again. I kept trying invent clever ways we might be able to sneak out the door with the whole thing and take it home.

It only took a few minutes for Christina to arrive with some menus and an apology. “Sorry if everything takes a while, there was supposed to be two of us today, but that obviously didn’t happen.” She rolled her eyes with angst as anxiety crept across her sweaty brow. I wanted to ask for the gory details about why her rude, inconsiderate co-worker didn’t show up, maybe give her a chance to vent, but I figured it was probably safer not to tread into those waters. “That’s okay; we’re not really in a hurry,” I lied.

We stared at the menu, waiting for something to jump out and grab our eyeballs, saying “Eat me! Eat me!” It was mid-afternoon, but the Gateway Café serves breakfast all day on Sundays so we considered the option. Huckleberry Pancakes definitely created a strong quiver on my breakfast voltage meter, and it’s always hard to say no to my old best friends Chicken Fried Steak and Scrambled Eggs. Also tempting were the omelets galore, the Good Morning Pork Chops, and the ever-popular Hot Oatmeal with Toast.

Looking at lunch options, I immediately vetoed the burgers. As much as I love a good bacon cheeseburger, sometimes I feel the need to experiment. However, uncommon culinary possibilities are tenuous at the Gateway Café, so I went for a comfort classic, the Hot Ham and Swiss. Sandwich standards like the Triple Decker BLT, the French Dip, and the Clubhouse Grill may not be exactly far-out, but along with Fish and Chips, Taco Salad and a 21 Shrimp Basket, they make for a refreshingly vintage line-up.

We forgave Christina for taking twenty minutes to return, but I was so dying of thirst that I was about to go behind the counter and pour my own Pepsi. “One more minute, guys!” she called out and she did return momentarily, totally out of breath, to take our order. She did and we settled in for the long haul, expecting our food to arrive sometime within this or the next astrological cycle, unsure about specifically when. We were flabbergasted when she returned barely two and a half minutes later, arms loaded with our lunch. “I don’t know how that happened so fast, I really don’t,” she marveled to us, still smiling, before running off to continue working her aching, tired feet down to the bone.

My sandwich was remarkable. Grilled ham, sliced thin and tender and juicy, piled high and topped with creamy melted Swiss on a fresh white Hoagie Roll served with no frills, just a couple of pickle chips and some chunky golden fries. Q. rated his ¼ pound Knight Burger an 8 out of 10, saying that the ham was succulent and smoky and that the lettuce and tomato were perfectly cold and crisp. Prices were astoundingly low for the amount of food and quality of cookery. Honestly, we weren’t expecting such memorably delicious meals and Christina left a positive impression despite the frenzy. The simple, rich experience of the Gateway Café comes from a mixture of American pride, old-fashioned greasy grill love, succulent karma and magic Palouse sun dust.

Mothers Day Buffet at Bistro on Spruce

We were having trouble thinking of something different to do this year with Mom on Mother's Day this Sunday, May 12. That is, until this web flyer from Bistro on Spruce arrived in our inbox today and made our tummies grumble with fond thoughts of good food and moms (and good food). Plus, look how affordable! Amazing price for such a lavish buffet, and I hear Chef Chris Mueller is one of the best in town.

After you indulge, take Mom to the free annual NIC Wind Symphony & Madrigal Singers Concert at the gazebo in Cd'A City Park at 2 p.m. Your mom will be so pleased,maybe she'll even forgive you for that Christmas you and Grandma drank too many Hot Buttered Rums and knocked over the tree dancing wildly together to "Jingle Bell Rock".

Bistro on Spruce Home Page

Flying J Travel Plaza Restaurant

Flying J
3636 West 5th Ave.,
Post Falls
(208) 773-0593

“Wow, I haven’t seen you guys in a long time!” the waitress percolated as she handed us our menus and poured our coffee. We gave each other sideways glances and laughed nervously. Only moments earlier, before we’d even walked into the Flying J Travel Plaza Restaurant in Post Falls, we were discussing how it had been ages and ages since we’d last eaten there. “It’s been at least since I was a senior in high school, if not earlier,” I calculated aloud, “so that’s nearly twenty years.” “I think it was 1991 for me,” decided Q. “Wow, you guys are older than Joan Rivers’ granddads” amazed our pal Miss A., who was actually still wearing diapers and eating mashed peas the last time either Q. or I dined at the landmark Interstate 90 truck stop. She couldn’t quite recall when she’d had the pleasure of a Flying J experience either, if ever.

I answered the waitress with a question mark on my lips. “Yeah, I guess so. It has been really quite awhile.” My gaze was fluctuating between her face and her name tag, hoping something might spark a memory, some explanation, but she still seemed terribly unfamiliar. I looked at Q. and Miss A. and they appeared equally flummoxed. There’s just no way this woman, who didn’t appear to be much older than us, if at all, could possibly remember us from our last visit, back in the day when MC Hammer pants were all the rage. Where else has she waitressed? Was she in one of our college classes? Did she ever have a yard sale, maybe? We racked our brains trying to figure out how she knew us, concluding that there must be another identical group of three friends, a triple doppelganger one could say, that occasionally frequents the Flying J and she simply mistook us for them. “Wouldn’t it be eerie to run into ourselves on the way out?” I pondered aloud.

Before our arrival, we were possibly a little caught up in the enigma, the classic Americana of the 24-hour truck stop diner. We wanted glossy cakes and pies displayed in bright pastry cases. White and cherry red porcelain tiles on the countertops and floors, stainless steel fixtures in the kitchen. Beehived waitresses hopped up on diet pills and strong coffee, flying around and acting sassy like Flo from Mel’s Diner: “Kiss my Grits!”

The only part of our little retro fantasy to come true were the telephones at every table, for the modern-day Flying J restaurant has absolutely zero kitsch factor and is done up in morose dark greens and boring beiges with lighting like a funeral home. A tragic attempt to pull Native American elements into play is evident with a ratty old Mexican flea-market blanket draped over a short wooden ladder hung on the wall next to a dusty dream catcher and some framed prints of mystical wolves purchased on clearance at Coldwater Creek in 1994.

An entire wall is devoted to plaques recognizing various employees’ corporate accomplishments: “This is to certify that Norma Gradwohl has met all the qualifications of a certified prep cook and is hereby awarded the title of Certified Prep Cook.”

I love this kind of circular corporate-speak. They also let us know that “a tremendous amount of research, development and testing goes into the many items you find on our menu.” That perfectly explains the resulting product. It’s all a big experiment where the idea is to replicate actual, natural food with something else, some kind of ultra-realistic mock-up, done in a way that no one really notices the difference. This makes our dear prep cook Norma Gradwohl more like a mad scientist, I suppose.

The glossy menu is fairly predictable; Steak and Eggs, French toast, Ham & Cheese Omelettes and a Breakfast Burrito. Lunchtime brings the usual assortment of burgers and fries, chicken sandwiches, and something called “Not Your Mom’s BLT.” Sorry, there’s nothing in it that would remotely faze my mother, who’s been known to enjoy such oddities as peanut butter, pickle and mayonnaise on rye. Dinner offerings include a list of Italian Pasta dishes and entrée salads as well as Honey Mustard chicken, which answers last week’s conundrum about where all the Honey Mustard dressing disappeared to.

We were impressed at first when the waitress brought out our meals spread across three plates each. There was so much food there almost wasn’t room it on our rickety little table. My scientifically engineered eggs actually tasted pretty good, their yellow color and fluffiness like an artificial sunshine in the gloom. The hash browns were fully heated and made to look like they were cooked, but their soul remained in the freezer. The biscuit was beamed in from a bakery on Planet Crumbly, and the gravy that smothered it and the chicken fried steak showed the promise of flavor only after a heavy salt and pepper attack.

The steak itself was battered in more ways than one. It was large enough, but was tough in texture, got cold immediately due to the weak consistency of the fried outer shell, and tasted so salty I could barely glom it down. I finished half and never wanted to look at it again. A. pretty much agreed with me, but inexplicably she got a box to take her leftovers home. Faring much better were Q.’s Blueberry Pancakes with Blueberry Syrup. “You’re going to turn into Violet Beauregarde, a big, bloated purple berry” I told him between all the bites I kept sneaking from his plate. For being nonfood, those pancakes were actually pretty good. Ultimately though, Flying J is most likely at its finest either totally sloshed at 3 a.m., or after 16 straight hours of driving a semi.