Maybe because I’ve only eaten in a Cracker Barrel once since 1993 have I really paid attention to them in any fashion other than, “DAMN! That parking lot is always packed!”
Our 1993 visit was a really good dinner for Ebola* and me on a cross-country leg, moving from SoCal to North Carolina. It had been a particularly stressful day of driving from New Orleans to north of Nashville, where I threw in the towel and stopped for the day. The two of us, plus the cat, the dog, and the biblical thunderstorms that had plagued us almost from launch time that morning. We were all feeling beaten to pieces, and the Red Roof Inn’s resident beagle launching at my door, wanting to fight our Scottie even before I could get out of the car, capped it off perfectly.
I had been in the first circle of Hell all day.
So, the Cracker Barrel in the adjoining parking lot looked like the fastest choice for…
