Indiana Road Trip: Food 1, Cindy 0

Recently, Randy and I took a brief, wet drive down I-65 towards Bloomington, which is the home of Indiana University and its excellent cadre of Victorianists. Cruelly, the English department there has waitlisted me for its doctoral program, and I wanted to see the campus for myself on the off chance that I will be admitted at the last minute. As Dickens might once have said, “Not bloody likely.”

I’m tired of road trips after having spent the last few months essentially living out of the trunk of my car, but the possibility of sampling fine Indiana roadfood along the way helped me muster up some enthusiasm. After driving through a series of extremely Evangelical-looking towns, we stopped for dinner at Gray Brothers Cafeteria in Mooresville.


They have their priorities straight at this place. Grab a tray, scoot down the line, and before doing anything else, select a massive dessert. For example:



After the most important decision is out of the way, you pick your dinner and sides. We got the fried chicken (recommended by Michael Stern), the meatloaf (smothered in a sticky-sweet tomato sauce), chicken stew with homemade noodles, sage dressing, mac and cheese and potatoes au gratin, plus slices of cherry and coconut cream pie for dessert.



As we ate, Randy and I discussed the shame we felt at our excessive piggishness, at the disgusting overdose of starch and carbs and sugar and fat spread before us. Why can’t we ever order an appropriate amount of food in these places?

We looked around the dining room, searching for anybody that had had the strength and the will power to resist the succession of steam trays groaning with potato products and heavy meats and thick wedges of pie. Was anybody eating a simple salad? Jello cubes? Peas and corn?

No, no and no. The more we looked, the more it seemed that our own trays were completely average in every way. Toothless grannies dove into giant mounds of beef and whitefish. Young mothers shoved gluey piles of mac and cheese into toddlers’ gaping mouths. Men in foam camouflage hats huddled over raisin pie and candied beets. I felt dizzy, overwhelmed by this foray into The Crossroads of America.

“Do you think we’re the only people in this entire dining room that voted for Kerry?” I whispered to Randy.
“I’m guessing yes,” he muttered as he polished off a hulking wedge of coconut cream pie that tasted like sunblock.
“I ate too much. I can feel all the starch forming a hard lump in my stomach. I wish I could stick my finger down my throat.”
“I think we need to get out of here.”


*****
The next day we stopped for lunch in Gnaw Bone, a small town about twenty miles east of Bloomington. Michael Stern had raved about a certain pork tenderloin sandwich available at the Marathon gas station, and with good reason. Again we overdid it, requesting two giant sandwiches and an order of “taters”.


I had trouble asking for “taters”. It made me feel like a jackass, as if I was playing at rural folksiness. But the women working at Gnaw Bone Food and Fuel were just about the kindest people I’ve ever come across. Being from the Midwest myself, that’s saying quite a bit because people in this part of the country are almost preternaturally friendly. They even offered us a free “Yes, there really is a Gnaw Bone, Indiana” keychain. Given the town’s name and the write-up in Gourmet last year, they’re probably used to us weird foodie types zipping in for a giant sandwich and a few pictures.

The pork was out of control. Each cutlet was the size of a small Frisbee. See how it’s approximately the same width as my head?



It was tasty and tender, but I can’t say that I’m lusting after another one anytime soon. In fact, I’m thinking that a few days of vegetarianism and macrobiotic living might not be such a bad thing. If our trip did nothing else, it did help convince me of the truth of that old tourism board jingle: “There’s more than cooooorn in Indiannnna!”