Poor Smiling Jack, he was on the road, he was hungry for a chicken-salad sandwich but, he was hit with OPPRESSION, from The MAN, and his whole 'rules-trip'!

We've all been there, and in this crazy sport of ours, there is MORE than enough 'on the road', and hey, a brother’s gotta EAT. But, sometimes it's an uphill climb, or, in the case of THIS month’s Joint, a VERTICAL climb. When I pitched this column to the Burkster, he was NOT enthused or amused: "Food? FOOD?!?? Gaawwd, are you f%#@ng KIDDING??? We've DONE food, to DEATH!!"

Ah, but you see, my good man, there is a 'mystery guest' sitting at THIS particular buffet, and it is this...You've never had 'food', as prepared by Chef Chicago Jon.

Not to worry, my Texan friend. He was probably afraid I was going to throw on an electric-blue bowling shirt, spike my hair white, jump into a red Camaro, and go off in search of "Funk-a-dacious Places!" or the like. Nope, I'll be just telling some stories, from the sublime to the ridiculous, about various feedbag adventures through the years. Because sometimes, a person just wants a 'chicken-salad-sam', or maybe just a slice of key lime pie, SO, Garson, whats first on the menu? (it IS Garson, correct? Gargoyle? Whatever, WAITER!)

Nothing says 'sublime' like a fine steakhouse, and such was the case last year while in Joliet, IL, for the NHRA Fram Nationals. While I do not possess a DeLorean time machine, it seemed like that’s what we used to arrive (repeatedly) at the retro glory that is Al's Steakhouse. Nothing screams 'old-school cool' like a sign that trumpets COCKTAILS -- in neon, no less!

Now, I must confess that I had to Google some 'dining terms' here, to tell this story correctly, and I was chagrined to find out that I had the definition of "A la carte" all wrong. Al’s is the type of place where they bring salads and sides to your table, for you to custom choose and select, and 'the caveman' (that would be me) discovers no, that is NOT A la carte, it's simply...ON A CART! Big difference, apparently. Fine dining at its best, and when you think of our universe of drag racing, the sport that invented "manifold-dogs and header-beans", it is definitely the most elaborate eats this jamoke has ever eaten during the course of a race weekend.

Al’s Steakhouse certainly had a diverse menu, but in terms of being at the track, the most diverse eats I've ever seen was at Brainerd International Raceway. Before the “corporate-America bastards” took that place over and RUINED it, there was no better place to spend a weekend, digging great racing all day, and partying with friends all night. One of the things they did best was embrace the local merchants, and created a, for lack of a better word, "food Midway". In the mood for ice cream? Hit the mini-Dairy Queen. Maybe a big old turkey leg? There's enough to club one of those renaissance-fairs to DEATH with! It was everything, and a little bit more, and it was so grand. Over the years, at first in little bites (hey, see what I did there?) the place started to lose its way, and its luster. Then, in one fell scoop, er, SWOOP, some dope who anointed himself 'Colonel', bought it, barged in, built condos, leveled trees, and pretty much ended everything 'right' the place had going for it. (I seriously doubt the guy ever served in ANY branch of the armed forces either.)[Editor’s note: The views expressed here by Chicago Jon are his own and do not necessarily reflect the views of DragRacingOnline.com … yadda, yadda, yadda.]

One of the joys of traveling these great United States of America that I love is the new experiences you get to enjoy along the way. Such was the case when I ventured to Houston, Texas, for the first time in 1988, for the inaugural Supernationals at Houston Raceway Park. Yeah, I know, neither the race nor the track are called that anymore. I still call the bridge at IRP the 'Hurst bridge', and the NASCAR race on Saturdays is the 'Busch race', so deal with it, hippie.

Where was I? Oh yeah, Houston. I'd been fighting a brutal cold all weekend, and it finally broke its stranglehold on me after the second round of pro cars. With a suddenly re-energized appetite, I headed towards the manufacturers midway, knowing there is traditionally food close by. There I spotted a decidedly ramshackle looking trailer with a long line at it. Using the logic that my Dad did on family vacations (which was, 'if there are a lot of trucks at a diner, it MUST be good!') I got in line, not even knowing what they sold. As I got to the head of the line, I still couldn't read what’s scribbled on the little chalkboard of a menu, and now it’s my turn.

Gal at the trailer window drawls out to me, "Haaayy, whuuddya yaawl woon, suuun?" I sideways glance at the fella just leaving with a mountain of chili, sour cream and jalapenos dumped over a pile of chips and exclaim, “Well, that looks GREAT, I'll have one of those.” She cocks her head, grins a delightful little 'couger-esque' smile, and exclaims "Free-dough PIE?? Ya'll muzzz naught BE from rawwn-he-yeaa, ya'll doh-know whuud Free-dough-PIIEE is!?"

Well, uhm, yes Mam, that would be correct, I am indeed not from "rawwn-he-yeaa", that should have been quite evident from the moment I opened my mouth. That was the day that I learned the wondrous glory that is Frito Pie, a staple in this house to this day. Such is the power and wonder of this marvelous concoction, that on days that the kids knew it was for dinner, they suddenly transformed into 'magical little Fifties-television kids'. Models of behavior, they were!!

I promised ridiculous, and that where we finish this buffet of racing eats, with a tale from the Raceview Campgrounds, across from the pits at IRP (now Lucas Oil Raceway). It's Monday morning of the 1983 US Nationals, and our merry 'gang of thieves' are all crawling out of their respective coffins, er, tents, to find Roger (one of the 'Minnesota Mafia') cooking a huge skillet of eggs. Exactly HOW eggs managed to survive in the cooler for the entire weekend is a bit of a mystery, but all us zombies are too hung over and STARVING to question that! People start frantically grabbing plates, and forming a line. Aaah, but Roger is a perfectionist, and decides that the eggs "could use a dash of salt", he reaches over to the dew-soaked picnic table, grabs one of those cardboard-cheapie MORTONS salt-shakers. Shakes, nothing....and then he bangs on the bottom with his fist, "catchup-style", and the soggy-tube EXPLODES, dumping the entire thing into the egg-goop in a nice little mounded heap. To this day, I still can hear the sound of 20-some guys groaning in unison, and the phrase "Rogers Bonneville-Eggs" live on in campground lore.

"Garbo, CHECK PLEASE!!" Time to leave a nice little tip, and head for the door. Thanks for hanging out. Til next month...C-YAAA!