Biscuitville: What's Good Here?

A memo from the home office in Trinity, North Carolina

It’s not a question I’d ever been asked in this location. I had often posed the question in other restaurants as far and wide as Paris, Yerevan, Moscow, and Jerusalem. It was not uncommon for me to ask the waiter or even a nearby patron who seemed to know the lay of the land, ‘What’s good here?” or “What do you recommend?”

Today, I was in Biscuitville, a restaurant noted for its biscuits. It also closes promptly at 2 pm. Should you desire a biscuit from Biscuitville, you should arrive by two. If you arrive at 2:01, you must go to Bojangles. Like Planck’s constant describing the fundamental behavior of particles and waves at the atomic levels, this, too, is a basic rule of the universe.*

As I waited in line, two well-dressed businesswomen came in and stood behind me. They were different from the usual lunchtime customers in Biscuitville at any hour, whether breakfast or lunch. If we were in the private Delta lounge at the airport, they’d fit right in. However, in Thomasville, at a Biscuitville right of I-85, it seemed like they had taken a wrong turn.

No, this was where they wanted to be. They considered all the other options up and down the highway, exited the interstate, and pulled into the nearly inaccessible Biscuitville parking lot. We will never know whether it was chance, fate, or the hand of God. (I’m going with God. I never bet against God.)

This brings us back to the beginning. Standing in line, minding my own business, ready to order my ultimate bacon platter, I hear one of these two refined voices (again a rarity for this part of the country) ask, “Excuse me, sir, can you tell me what’s good here?” Then she added, “We’re from out of town and have never eaten in a Biscuitville.”

She didn’t need to add that last sentence. When it comes to understanding context, I’m a ninja.

My brain froze. I couldn’t believe I was being asked, “What’s good in Biscuitville?” Here’s where I had several options. I could give a generic, “It’s all good,” with a gentle wave at the menu above the registers.  My second option was to play the role of biscuit connoisseur. This choice was fraught with danger. First, my wife, who was ahead of me in line, would give that, “Oh, here he goes again,” look I had come to know so well. The “being Richard in public” look. Some of you have seen me be “me” in a public setting. Secondly, I could appear an obnoxious fool in front of the regular Biscuitville crowd, risking a “You ain’t from around here, are you, boy” confrontation. In this case, we’d make a mad dash to the Camry and head to the safety of the Waffle House.

Throwing caution to the wind, I went with door number two. I turned to the woman and said, “You can’t go wrong with the platter. My favorite is the ultimate breakfast. Along with fluffy scrambled eggs, there is a choice of bacon, sausage, country ham, and various sides. The hash brown is exquisite, unlike anything you’ll find at McDonald’s or Burger King. It’s simply to die for. It’s quite a feast. You can see the biscuits being made through this window to the right.” In that instance, I transformed into a Biscuitville snob. Little did I know, you can be pretentious about anything with little effort. Whatever I said worked. I sold it. They both ordered the platter.

“Richard,” said the woman from the counter about two minutes later. Our food was ready. With confident steps, I returned to the counter to retrieve our feast. There was the “look” when I placed the trays on the table. “What?” I asked, knowing exactly what I’d done. I was prepared to make an elaborate defense of my actions. I looked like a friendly face and someone who knew good biscuits. I was being helpful to tourists. This was the Lord’s work to spread the Good News of biscuits.

“They asked me if I wanted the senior discount,” she said.

“What?”

“They asked me if I wanted the senior discount. Do I look that old?

“No baby, you look young to me. Those Biscuitville people don’t know what they’re talking about. They need glasses.”

The moral of this story: distractions and variables.  Sometimes, the people you’re trying to impress aren’t looking at all. They’re busy wondering why the woman at the Biscuitville counter thinks she’s a senior citizen.

*This does not account for the so-called “Waffle House Variable” discovered in 1953.