For Every Journey, A Beginning

  A pleasant interstate 70 welcomed Rebecca and me, beginning our journey with confidence from Manhattan, Kansas. Crossing the point of no return, Kansas City, made me tingle.  The miles and hours passed effortlessly driving east through America’s sleeping heartland. State lines came and went but anticipation never wavered. At each stop for gas or other road trip necessities, Rebecca would wake and inquire about our location. The orange glow of the rest stop street light illuminated her smile of satisfaction.

We were headed east for a New England eats tour. For a kid from Kansas, this was a trip for the senses, an inexperienced region to be seen and tasted, for the born Long Islander, a homecoming and walk in the park. Our tour took us to edge of delicious and back, from Philadelphia to Portland (Maine) and eats in between. The following is an aspiring food writer’s blog about experiences with and opinions of classic American dishes where America began.

Stop #1- Philadelphia, PA

  Miles logged: 1,251

Soggy sandwich Saturday

Traffic and rain, welcome to the Mid Atlantic. Arriving in the city of brotherly love after 21 straight hours of driving was anything but lovely. Patience and consciousness wearing thin, I needed a sandwich.

Our first stop was the foodie central at the corner of 12th and Arch in downtown Philadelphia, Reading Terminal Market. Since 1893 the market has offered Philadelphians the finest from farm fresh produce to meats and poultry. Today the market houses over 80 vendors and covers 1.7 acres. With that selection there is surely something for everyone. For me, it was a sandwich and no, it wasn’t a cheese steak.

After being swindled for my parking fare, we walked through the doors. No amount of preparation can suffice for the sensory overload of the vast market. Tourists milling, vendors shouting, lights and signs all aglow. You can actually taste the air. With out a map and my salivary gland in over drive, I was questing a sandwich. The roast pork sandwich with broccoli rabe from DiNic’s Roast Pork and Beef, a sandwich I was told combats the beloved cheese steak for Philadelphia supremacy.  After enough looking and some luck, we approached the counter, however was it too late?

“Sorry we are out of the roast pork…We’re out of broccoli rabe too,” she said. Swallow sadness. My heart sank. The drive, the weather, the petty fight with Rebecca about parking, suddenly the news was like iodine in an open wound. Stunned, I order the next best thing, pulled pork with spinach and provolone cheese (pictured), cherry Coke to drink. Rebecca mentioned the lady taking orders must have been new or the owner because she was a horrible cashier. Upon receiving our order, to our surprise and delight, we found two sandwiches. Thanks counter lady. You partially mended my broken heart.

We bellied up to the cozy stools lining Dinic’s counter, conveniently not mentioned the second sandwich. I considered it just compensation. One bite of the pulled pork sandwich was what it took. Juices running down my chin, I reached for a napkin with delight. The combination of slow roasted pork with hand-chopped provolone and stewed spinach on a fresh roll made me wonder how better the roast pork could be. A few more bites and I had to stop, no matter how good the sandwich. I had two more cheese steaks to eat!

Philly Continued

  “Love Thy Neighbor”  (unless you both make cheese steaks)

After stuffing my face with pulled pork at the Reading Terminal Market, now I have to eat cheese steak? This is what I live for. It’s been the subject of debate, lore and television segments. Who makes the better cheese steak, Pat’s or Geno’s? The time had come to cast my ballot. Sometimes dreams do come true.

Do a spin move around City Hall, go down Broad St. and hang a left at Passyunk and look ahead. (Trust me you can’t miss it.) You have arrived at the epicenter of the cheese steak battle. For years Philadelphians and passers-by have come to the corner of Passyunk and Wharton for two terrific Philadelphia mainstays. Many walk to one counter, then the next to get their hands on each shop’s legendary sandwiches. However, true loyals dare not cross into enemy territory. We arrived to try both, eager to make our own decisions.

First, Pat’s the King of Steaks, we would see about that. One characteristic of Philadelphians I quickly noticed was their impatience. Their “shit or get off the pot” ideology was evident in traffic and particularly clear when ordering a cheese steak. If ordering at Pat’s (or Geno’s) for the first time, it helps to do your homework or ask someone else in line. The folks in the window just want your order. When standing in line at Pat’s, take a minute to look at the instructions for ordering your cheese steak. Learn the vernacular and process to avoid embarrassment or like the sign says, “Go to the back of the line and start over.” I had done my homework. I ordered my “Whiz, wit” and it was slid through the window before I could cross the “t.” The thinly sliced chopped sirloin fresh off the griddle lain with caramelized diced onions, smothered in molten cheeze whiz cradled in a roll steamed in the cold rain’s evening air. This was what I came to Philly for.

After inhaling the steak from Pat’s, it was time to cross the street. Facing Geno’s almost requires a pair of Raybans. Geno’s facade is not justified in a picture or on TV. Neon lights, orange tile and awning bring a bit of Vegas to Philly. Like a mosquito to a bug zapper, I was drawn to it. Rebecca and I approached the counter noticing the menu, ordering style and table arrangements all similar to Pat’s. I ordered a “Whiz, wit” quickly slid to me through the window. I examined the sandwich. After long, I couldn’t take it. This one hardly lasted too.

Pat’s and Geno’s cheese steaks are not identical twins, more like, fraternal. Both sandwiches are thin sliced sirloin and serve in a fresh roll. Onions or “wit” are optional (though highly recommended). Both establishments offer a variety of cheeses to accompany their sandwiches: cheeze whiz, American and provolone. There is no indoor dining space at either restaurant and you have a unique ordering system. So, if prices are competitive, then why fraternal? Pat’s chops their steak, Geno’s does not. According to Geno’s owner, Joey Vento, they don’t chop the steak because the cow is already dead. Why chop him up any more?

Both sandwiches didn’t stand much of chance in my hands. I ate them so fast that my taste buds hardly noticed a difference. Though I enjoyed the texture of the chopped steak from Pat’s, Geno’s offered a more flavorful steak. The sandwiches were both juicy and delicious. This sandwich reminds me of why I’m an omnivore. Vegetarians are missing out. To pick one over the other is difficultbut if a gun were to my head, I’d pick Pat’s. There I said it.

Stop #2 Massapequa, NY- Long Island

  Miles logged: 1,391

An All-American classic

Not much had changed but our location on the map when waking from my cheese steak induced coma along the New Jersey turnpike. The rain was relentless and the traffic, even worse. We plotted our next course to my girlfriend’s parents’ home on Long Island. However, after a missed turned and a closed exit, we took the scenic route through Brooklyn. Bickering, pointing and a lot, “I think we need to turn here,” finally got us out of the city.

The rain was one of the worst storms the Mid Atlantic had seen in years. High winds along with saturated soil caused uprooted trees all over the New York metropolitan area. Even lives were lost. I don’t mean to sound cynical but if you’re whacked – pardon the pun – by a falling tree, not a limb, then it’s just your time to go. But I digress. The weather persisted for the duration of our stay with Rebecca’s parents but a little rain wasn’t going to dampen our spirits for a tasty burger.

All-American in Massapequa, NY has been serving up quintessential fast food since 1963. Walk through the doors of this Long Island icon and one is taken back to a burger stand of yester-year. The friendly staff is happy to take your order as they scurry about to serve the ever-growing line. Order a double double (double cheeseburger), fries and a Coke from the vintage menu and enjoy on one of tables outside on a pleasant afternoon, maybe even catch a glimpse of one of All-American’s celebrity patrons. Famous Long Islanders such as Jerry Seinfeld and Billy Joel have been known to stop by for one of their favorite burgers.

Our experience was all the above, except the weather and celebrities. Arriving at All-American was what I expected. On a cold, rainy evening, the crowd inside fogged up the glass facade of the burger stand. My party and I joined the growing mass. Approaching the counter required weaving through the hungry customers. Like many classic restaurants, customers order ala carte. The way things used to be. After a few minutes in the agitate cycle of the All-American washing machine, we emerged with our food. Due to the inclement weather, we enjoyed our All-American in the comfort of the family mini-van. Nothing says authenticity like a Honda Odyssey.

Who loves soggy burgers? Ooh! I do! I do! One bite into my All-American double double and it’s easy to understand the popularity and tradition. Quality beef, melted American cheese (go figure) and a thin bun give the burger its desirable texture. I’m obviously a fan of soggy burgers, but only when done right. Far too often is a high fat patty squished on the griddle to render it thin and tough. The All-American burger uses a leaner ground beef that prevents shrinking during cooking. When eaten, the patties are more for the teeth to bite through. This also gives the beef better flavor to blend with the cheese and condiments without overpowering. To complement a fantastic burger are golden fries. Deep fried to perfection in peanut oil to give a unique flavor and texture, crispy on the outside with a tender interior and a true potato flavor. And then there is knish…a what?

I had only heard of this, knish. I saw it on the menu and had to have it. It looked like a fish fillet still shining from the deep fryer. I took a bite and was perplexed but delighted. Who ever decided to deep fry mashed potatoes is a genius. It was delicious. I polished off the knish and everyone’s left over fries and it was time to go. No more fried foods. Well, at least for the rest of that day. The next day we were going to the City for another eating adventure.

Stop #3- New York, NY

  Miles logged: 1,445

New York City, a resort destination for the senses.

Getting off the Long Island Rail Road at Penn Station evokes a reluctant smile. The energetic environment is the opposite of my home but I really like this town. I have a feel for the city. Doing as the New Yorkers makes me feel good, even a little jealous. The food, riding the subway and walking a myriad of city blocks, I dig it all. Clichés of a major metropolitan area come true in a place like New York. Hell, this is where they came from. Yes, it’s loud, it’s dirty and the people are not always friendly but more than sixteen million of them call this place home. Obviously there is something to like here.

I’ve seen the sights and walked a mile or five like a New Yorker. This trip is about delving deeper.  I have always believed that an authentic experience involves eating what the locals eat. If a destination’s people are the windows into its soul, their taste buds are the front door step. The latest edition of our New York City agenda included two legendary eats, Nathan’s Famous in Coney Island and Katz’s Deli in Manhattan. Both of these iconic restaurants are rooted deep in New York history. Each restaurant has been in its original location serving New York staples for over 90 years.

I know where the Coney comes from

Take the D train to the end of the line at the corner of Surf & Stillwell in Brooklyn. Follow your nose to Mecca for a hotdog lover. Beginning as a simple hotdog cart on this corner, Polish immigrant Nathan Handwerker used is wife’s recipe to sell an all beef, five cent hotdog. The rest, as they say, is history. Today Nathan’s can be enjoyed in all 50 states and is sold at over 20,000 foodservice and retail outlets. But for the true experience, come to Brooklyn. One a summer day, lines form around the block as hungry Coney Island goers wait to taste history. Each summer, competitive eaters dare to fill their stomachs with as much history as possible in ten minutes as the corner of Surf & Stillwell hosts Nathan’s Famous Fourth of July International Hotdog Eating Competition. The current record is held by American Joey Chestnut inhaling 68 hotdogs and buns. I came to eat my fill but not that many.

“This is Brooklyn right hee-uh (here),” says the gentleman wearing a retro Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap and t-shirt as he eats another French fry. Just then, I knew I had arrived. As Rebecca and I sat at our table, I put aside the crummy weather and lived in the moment. Finally, I was there.  We had ordered too much food out of excitement. I was going to need more napkins. Taking a bite the first chili dog brought an instant smile. The snap of the all-natural casing and blend of spices were phenomenal. Never before had I tasted a more flavorful hotdog. Nathan’s chili and cheese sauce can only make something this good, even better. Accompanying our dogs were the delicious crinkle cut fries and washed down with Nathan’s home-made lemonade. There isn’t much to be said about a hotdog but when a great one is eaten; you know it. Indeed, proclaiming fry eater, this is Brooklyn right hee-uh.

This is where Harry met Sally

Two simple words: pastrami sandwich. Nobody does it better than the institution of Katz’s Deli at the corner of Houston and Ludlow in the Lower East side of Manhattan. Since 1888, Katz’s has been serving delicatessen favorites. Over 120 years later Katz’s has achieved legend status. Katz’s is New York City. Your first visit to Katz’s and you will definitely want what “she’s having”.

Standing outside of Katz’s requires a gaze and a deep breath. I stood in the cold rain to soak in the moment. We entered the door at the corner of the building, proceeding into the large dining room. Conversing diners gathered in small groups at tables situated long rows towards the back of the restaurant. Along the right-hand side of the large room, paper hat-donning artisans exhibited their craft. This is where the magic happens, for lack of a better phrase. I approached the counter. Katz’s is famous for their pastrami but why? Their process of selecting only the best quality beef, preparing the pastrami to the Katz’s standard and serving their meats the only way they know how; hand-slicing every sandwich. That’s right. Thousands of the New York’s best pastrami sandwiches are sliced by hand every day. I gave my ticket to the carver and he placed a sample on the counter as he prepared our order. After my initial taste I felt almost privileged be able to eat an entire sandwich.

We found a table and sat down. I hurried to take a picture of the pile of sandwich and take a bite before it ran away. After that first bite, nothing else will ever compare. An intense flavor filled my mouth. Rich spice blends slow-cooked into the beef come through with a rich marbling flavor. The meat falls apart as you press the tongue to the roof of your mouth. If not for the bread, you hardly need teeth to eat the sandwich. You will need a set of chomppers for one of Katz’s famous pickles. Yes, there pickles are famous too. The “not-so-pickled” pickle, as I referred to it, is actually a barrel pickle. After a few more large bites of my half of the sandwich, I got to finish Rebecca’s half and the rest of our fries.  I hit the wall. No more food. Stuffed with hotdogs and pastrami, I placed my hands behind my head and leaned back in my chair with content asking “Does it get much better than this?”

Stop #4 New Haven, CT

  Miles logged: 1,527

Taste the tradition.

Situated just blocks from Yale University in downtown New Haven, Connecticut, Louis’ Lunch is the home of the hamburger sandwich. Today this brick doll house is recognized as a national historic landmark, but it’s what’s cooking inside that is truly historic. 

In 1895, a butter dealer named Louis Lansen operated a simple lunch cart on a New Haven street corner to feed factory workers of the area. According to legend, in 1900 Lasen served a broiled beef patty between two slices of toasted bread to an impatient diner watching lunch on the run; thus the creation of an American legend, the hamburger. Four generations later, this luncheonette remains family owned and operated. Louis’ great-great grandson, Ken Lasen, can be found behind the counter carrying on the tradition.

To this point in our trip I had learned a couple of things about visiting classic eateries. One, also carry cash; many are ‘old school’. Cash is king. Two, know how to order. Even if you are a tourist, try not to show it. The line moves faster and you avoid the awkward stares by doing a little homework. When in doubt, ask some one in line. Approaching the counter at Louis’ Lunch, I felt like a natural. “Yeah, can I get two cheese works, two chip with a root and a cherry.” Translation: “May I have two cheeseburgers with onion and tomato, two bags of chips with a root beer and cherry soda, please.” The owner took my order. I recognized him from the Travel Channel.

Finding a seat in Louis’ can always be a challenge. The dining space would make a studio apartment dweller feel claustrophobic. Rebecca and I were lucky enough to squeeze into a nook next to a window. I was so excited, I could hardly hold still. I wiggled in my tiny seat, careful not to hit the wall or anyone else. I calmed down enough to look around at the customer ‘artwork.’ Almost everything of good taste has been carved into the walls. Names, initials and dates adorn table tops and chairs. My favorite etched graffiti was the initials surrounded by a heart that had been crossed out. “J.S. + M. R. 4 ever,” I guess not. Pocket knife in hand, I left my mark. After defacing personal property, our order was up.

There’s something about being served THE original hamburger. Becca slid me the simple sandwich served on a paper plate. With one bite, I could taste the tradition. Louis’ Lunch has been hand-rolling the secret blend of five meats and cooking the burgers in the original upright gas broilers as Louis Lasen did more than a century ago. This was the essence of an unadulterated burger. You can’t even get ketchup on it. “Don’t even ask.” states the sign clearly posted above the service counter. Simplicity at it’s finest is this burger, served between two slices of white bread, cooked to a warm pink center and dressed with tomato and onion. No lettuce. Leave it for the wonderful animal that gave us this delicious burger. From day one, the Lasens have taken pride in the flavor produced by their blend of meat. They refuse to cover it up with pomp and circumstance. Dedication and commitment to surviving a tradition can be seen in every brick and tasted in every bite. I have eaten sliders and burgers of about every meat imaginable. There are good burgers and there are great ones. This one is the best.

Stop #5 Kittery, ME

Miles logged: 1,853

So cliché but so delicious

One year prior to this moment, New York City was the moon to me. A few trips later and I have my pizza folding technique down. Now I’m launching from my giant leap to Mars. We’re driving farther from familiarity. Leaving the sprawl of the greater New York metropolitan area, the New England country smiles at us. Concrete and congestion open to gentle green mountains and crisp air. We are headed for Maine. Welcome to Mars.

Coastal Maine is a place rarely seen by a Kansan. Despite the geographic obstacle, folks from my neck of the woods know very little or care of this place. A landscape so opposite of my home is extraterrestrial to me. Lush pines canvas the horizon. Picturesque cottages adorn bays and inlets as if from an LL Bean catalog. Driving with the windows down encourages an effortless inhale. I’m really starting to like this place. Our day-trip to Maine takes us north from the lower coast from Portland to Freeport. The quaint village of Freeport attracts tourists with appetite to save on expensive merchandise with a number of quality outlet malls including the LL Bean flagship store. Go figure. After poking around in stores where we couldn’t afford the outlet prices, we departed with a few stickers and t-shirts. We had made dinner plans with Rebecca’s friend Ashley in the small town of Kittery, just across the Piscataqua River from Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Guess what I am having for my first dinner in Maine?

It sounds cliché but frankly it’s delicious, the Maine “lobstah,” as the locals say. Few places in Maine do it better than Warren’s. At the end of their own pier in the Piscataqua, Warren’s Lobster House has been dishing out the best the New England coast has to offer since 1940. Warren’s began as a humble six-seat counter in the port selling lobster at 25 cents a pound. $29.75 per pound of lobster later, Warren’s is a lower coast icon. Today the restaurant seats 350, houses it’s own bakery, gift shop, full-service bar, 200-feet boat dock and Maine’s finest salad bar, featuring over 60 items, soups and fresh breads. (And a partridge in a pear tree.)

I have never been to a place like Warren’s. Red Lobster is the closest I get to seafood. Warren’s holds a nostalgic charm. Following our hostess to our waiting friend, I glanced that the newspaper articles framed on the walls celebrating another Warren’s milestone of longevity. Examples of seaman’s knots and various species of mounted sea creatures including a replica 30-pound lobster stare at us as we approach the table. We take a seat and I am pleased. We had come to the right place.

Perusing the menu, my eyes became big as scallops. My craving for crustacean was almost defeated by the impact on the wallet. I convinced myself that the opportunity to eat Maine lobster in a place like Warren’s was rare and splurged. My tasty friend came with butter dipping sauce, instructions, bib and a trip to the featured salad bar. After patiently waiting and enjoying my appetizer, my entrée stared at me from the tabletop. I have eaten lobster before, but never like this. This meal was about to get personal. Red from his recent fatal dip in the Jacuzzi, my dinner rests before me. Eating lobster is an experience. Rarely do you get such a primal acquaintance with your food. Tearing it to pieces is a great way to get to know one of God’s creatures. But you must get all the tasty bits, especially at 30 freaking dollars a pound. Claws cleaned and legs licked, brings me to the piece de resistance, the tail. My plate mat instructions offered tips and illustrations but declined. After some giggles from the lobster-aficionado girls, I dunked and consumed. I smiled as I used the bib to wipe the butter sauce off my face.

At the conclusion of the meal, we retired to Ashley’s house for a few locally brewed beers and some gab. Coming to Maine surprised me. A place so far from home certainly didn’t feel like it. The hospitality is as unspoiled as the countryside. I can’t wait to come back. Welcome to Maine. Welcome home.

Stop #6 Waterbury, VT

Miles logged: 2,038

One sweet stop

After our evening with friends of the human and crustacean kind, we were back on the road. Our trip was winding down. At this point we had driven almost 2,000 miles and Rebecca and I could feel the road getting to us. Our spirits endured with the excitement and the beauty of our next destination.

Heading even farther north to Vermont through middle New Hampshire was peaceful. Gently rolling hills and the rising sun made for a pleasant morning cruise. Trees budded with the arrival of spring. We drove through small towns dotted with houses on hillsides; the church steeple as the prominent town edifice. The hills of New Hampshire quickly became the northern ranges of the Appalachian Mountains. I often had to keep myself from staring at the patches of snow still lingering on the highest peaks. It’s not that I wanted to stop, it’s because I was driving. Vermont blew me away. I had no she was so beautiful. Vermont is a yuppie-free Colorado, similar mountains, but without the condos.

The Green Mountain state is not famous for much. Google famous Vermonters and you get Calvin Coolidge, John Deere and some hockey player, among others. Vermont is landlocked in the Northeast; not exactly prime real estate. But one thing they do have is cattle, fabulous, happy, and, of course, delicious cows. Happy cows do not come from California. They all moved to Vermont. These marvelous, grass-fed beasts produce some of the best milk and cream available. This cows’ gift makes some damn good ice cream.

In 1977, Ben Cohen and Jerry Greenfield decided to quit their day jobs and do something more fun. So they completed a five-dollar ice cream making correspondents course from Penn State University. With $12,000 start-up money, they renovated a gas station in the college town of Burlington, VT to open Ben and Jerry’s Homemade. Pioneering innovative flavors like Cherry Garcia and New York Super Fudge Chunk, Ben and Jerry’s quickly caught on. From earning a little more then $4 million in 1984 to being purchased for $326 million in 2000. Ben and Jerry’s always felt a social responsibility for their community and environment. The company pledges a percentage of the year’s profits to charity and utilizes environmentally friendly packaging and shipping methods. Today, Ben and Jerry have stepped back from the spotlight but their namesake lives on to be enjoyed all over the world one pint at a time.

The factory tour at the Ben & Jerry’s Waterbury facility has become Vermont’s most popular tourist attraction. Every year ice cream diehards, like us, make the pilgrimage to Vermont to see the birth of their favorite ice cream. The dairy barn-style ice cream factory sits nestled in the beautiful Vermont landscape outside Waterbury. Milling about the campus you get a feel for company. Simple style and bright colors are welcoming and clean. A couple hippies started the company and one definitely gets that feeling. I mean who else would quit their day jobs to make ice cream? You can buy just about anything tie-dye with the B&J’s logo on it in the gift shop next to, guess what, the ice cream store. Other than these areas, there is little to see and do until the tour starts. 

We paid our $3 each for the tour and we began with the standard introductory video. We then proceeded to the mezzanine, a glass viewing area above the production floor. In this area photography is prohibited, fearing that a tour guest is a spy from Haagen-Dazs. “Old Slugworth would give his false teeth for fifteen minutes in this room,” says Mr. Wonka. Sadly to say, ice cream production was at a stand still on the date of our visit. The oopaloompas had the day off. After the disappointing view of production, it was time for the tasting, everyone’s favorite part of the tour. Tour goers then crammed into an orange room to receive their oversized paper ketchup receptacle of oatmeal cookie dough ice cream. After a few bites and licks of my sample, a silent Q and A portion of the tour, it ended. I exited a little bummed, I must say. The tour wasn’t very informative, we didn’t get to see ice cream being made and our tour guide was on such a sugar high, you could hardly understand him. The tour was a bit on the lacking side.

After the disappointing tour we bought some overpriced bigger samples from the scoop shop. We snapped pictures and meandered through the flavor graveyard for discontinued ice cream. After snapping a few more pictures, it was time to go. We came. We saw. We sampled. The state’s largest tourist attraction certainly left something to be desired. At least I left with the aftertaste of some really good ice cream.

Stop #7 Buffalo, NY

Miles logged: 2,461

Buffalo gives you wings

Our final stop was not on the original itinerary. The plan was to depart northern Vermont, cruise through up-state New York and circumvent lakes Ontario and Erie on our way back to the yellow brick road. We would pass by Buffalo with no plans of stopping. That was until we got a craving for chicken wings. How could we leave Buffalo wings off our food tour? It would be a shame. Determined and hungry, we rerouted our course to the birthplace of the Buffalo wing, the Anchor Bar.

Anchor Bar has been home of the original Buffalo wing since 1964 when owner Teressa Bellissimo’s son Dominic requested a special snack for his lubricated friends. Bellissimo took some chicken parts generally reserved from soup and fried them. She then tossed them in a secret blend of hot sauce and melted butter to create the Buffalo wing. Popularity of this concoction quickly spread worldwide. Though Anchor Bar’s Buffalo wing is often imitated, it is never duplicated.

Wading through the crowd to reach the hostess stand was a challenge. Our arrival coincided with NCAA basketball tournament time. Though our wait was lengthy, we hadn’t come all this way to be deterred. Within a few minutes we were escorted to a cozy corner of the restaurant. The crimson walls were decorated with antique motorcycles, license plates and numerous autographed framed photos of famous patrons. Once seated, our less than enthusiastic server took our order. Halfway through my Labatt Blue, the platter of wings arrived.  These wings must have come from chickens on anabolic steroids. Never before had I seen such meaty chicken parts. Each wing and leg was smothered in the famous sauce. I could feel my stomach filling already. Did I mention we ordered onion rings too?

Our fried food binge began with of course, the wings. The taste and texture was incomparable. I have eaten a lot of chicken wings, but none this good. The crispy skin complimented the meat’s tenderness. The meaty wings and legs served as paintbrushes, spreading the orange sauce farther and farther from the corners of my mouth with each bite. Now, I know traditionally Buffalo wings are served with bleu cheese but I’m from the plains. I like me some ranch dressing with just about…everything, especially with wings. For fear of ridicule and awkward stares, I refrained from asking from an alternative dipping sauce. Rebecca really wanted to also. We nibbled the last bits and abandoned hope with the onion rings. Our fried food fest had finally wrapped.

Exiting Anchor Bar, swearing off fried food for a week, was gratifying. Our detour in Buffalo was delicious, however, it was finally time to head back to Kansas. We got back in the car at dusk prepared to drive through the night, until, “Hey, we came all the way here. We should go to Niagara Falls.”

Follow the yellow brick road.

Miles logged: 3,567 

Venturing from the familiar opens eyes, the heart and mind. The human spirit yearns to learn and to experience, satisfied by travel. This adventure fulfilled a desire to see and taste the unfamiliar. Through rain and shine, the wheels rolled. More than 3,500 miles were traveled, each one containing something new. The experiences, lessons learned and sights seen will never be forgotten. They’re simply too good to let go. Our next adventure will take us to another dark road leading to who knows where. No matter where I roam I always remember, there’s no place like home. Until next time, stay hungry my friends.