Biscuit Discrimination

I have returned from my 8 day trip to Florida with tons of digital photos to prove it. My level of optimism is up despite returning to a New Jersey tundra. However, there were two occasions on my trip that threatened to ruin my jolly good time in the land of Mickey Mouse, Cape Canaveral, and the Tampa Bay Lightning. Yeah, that's right! I give shout outs to ALL ice hockey in tropical climates.

The first damper of the trip occurred on the car ride down to Florida. Having started our drive at 10:30 AM, my girlfriend, Kristin, and her mother (my passengers), decided they were hungry. Kristin’s mother was convinced I needed to eat food or else I'd pass out and crash the car. Frankly, I was quite full from snacking on Baked Cheetos and a Tupperware of leftover fruit from a basket someone sent my mother for my grandma's death.

So, despite my insistence on plowing through as much mileage as I could, I decided to dock at one of the 87 Cracker Barrel restaurants that make up the landscape of Interstate 95., en route to Florida. This particular one happened to be near the bottom of North Carolina, and as I learned, was no place for a trio of Yankees like us. For this, my fellow reader, is where we fell victim to possibly the worst kind of discrimination. Discrimination punishable by biscuits.

OR LACK THEREOF. I knew it was a bad sign when we pulled off I-95, undoubtedly the busiest roadway for vacationers in the known world, and found the parking lot full to the brim with North Carolina license plates. Upon entering, it was clear this was no tourist trap. This was actually where the locals dined on a Saturday night. This was a pit stop of weekly proportions to them. They were pros. Us, the foes.

I must interject at this point, I am a huge fan of the Cracker Barrel. To those who haven't been blessed to eat there as of yet, the restaurant is like eating in a rickety yet cozy, old country house. That is, if this particular country house had pictures of random dead people on the wall and contained a gift shop with candy bars and discount Andy Griffith Show DVDs you could purchase at Wal-Mart. Their food is for those in the mood for a well cooked, tasty, rib sticken, soul fooden, good time. I'm always in the fucking mood for that shit!

Our waitress, a chubby, sweaty, sweet gal in her upper teens took our order and then asked, "Would you like biscuits or corn muffins with your meal? Or a mix of each?" We agreed on the mix. She spoke generally, to the whole table, declaring she'd bring out a plate of the mixed biscuits. My favorite part.

The biscuits at the Cracker Barrel are equivalent to the nachos they gave you at Chi-Chi's before they went out of business for serving poisoned lettuce. They're unlimited and hold you over until your entrée arrives, at which point you're basically full anyway. As I waited for my biscuits, I heard our same waitress address the group of twang spoken locals behind us. I was immediately shocked when she offered each member of the table, about 7 in all, an individual option of "biscuits" or "corn muffins" with their meals, as in "And how 'bout you, Stanley. Want a biscuit or muffin wit yours? An’ yew Sue?"

Finally, our food arrived. But no biscuits. "Excuse me. We never got our biscuits," I politely informed her. "Oh, yeah. We're makin’ a fresh baytch," she replied. Fair enough. So we started eating.

Immediately after we got our food, the table of 7 behind us got theirs, complete with personalized choice of biscuit. "Here Ray, Here's your Salisbury Steak and BISCUIT." Motherfucker, I was pissed.

We waited and waited. Our waitress passed. "Excuse me. Can we get our biscuits." "Sure one minute, hunaayyy," she said. We waited. Again I stopped her and asked. A similar answer followed. The tables around us, tobacco dippers, summer farmers on sabbatical, avid hunters, legal firework operators, were all enjoying their biscuits. I even stopped a male waiter. "Can you bring us our biscuits please." "Sure thang," he said.

But still no biscuits. Then our waitress did that disappearing act thing I'm sure everyone's experienced (when you’re in dire need of a freaking refill, it’s as if they go on a two day diner break). It was horrible. By the time we all finished our meals, the biscuits still hadn't arrived. Finally, bathed in the rays of Jesus Christ himself, we received them along with our check. “Y’all have a great night now. Ya’ hear.” It was the final nail in the coffin. We were nothing but a bunch of damn Yankees threatening the locals below the Mason Dixon, all in pursuit to see a 6 foot tall talking Mouse at the beginning of February. We wrapped our biscuits in napkins like peasants. I dinned depressed on them in our South Carolina Travelodge that night, in the dark.

The next morning, we stopped to grab a quick breakfast at a McDonalds. We ordered a couple hash browns, some sandwiches, and again, a few stray biscuits. I got our bag, pulled away, and headed toward Florida. It was then Kristin’s mom pulled the food out of the bag, “Hey, they forgot our biscuits. Turn around.”

I hit the gas, leaving all biscuits that were rightfully ours in the Carolinas. Scenes from “Deliverance” flashed in my head. Discrimination sucks.