![]() ![]() Can the food actually meet the hype? Have I been duped into driving nearly three hours round-trip to experience the equivalent of a Denny’s with a Matthew McConaughey accent? Is this the first time I’ve actually stood on a front porch? All valid questions.Ī post shared by Cracker Barrel on at 7:18am PST A revenue stream stockholders surely laud, but it’s easy to look past the economics and see it for what it also is: one good old country time of a waiting area, where everyone from grandma to your baby sister can find comfort and amusement while being tortured by the escaping aroma of those biscuits and bowls of black-pepper-flecked white gravy. Every piece of furniture-including the giant outdoor checkers board-is for sale. It’s 30 miles south of Barstow where I step onto the same front porch every Cracker Barrel welcomes guests with: Dozens of new rocking chairs are on display, their price tags blowing in the wind. This is a distant place in what seems like the middle of nowhere a safe place where an Angeleno can feel free to live the American dream by stuffing their recently facial-ized head with more calories and saturated fat than an eating contest at Smorgasburg because there isn’t a drop of Earthbar green juice or a Soulcycle bike for as far as the eye can see. It’s an area mostly ignored by freeway commuters who can now be enticed to exit the highway for a recharge inside a newly poured concrete strip mall in front of a drought-thirsty, barely-snow-capped mountain backdrop. I scale a freeway maze to the newest location, which sits just off the 15 and historic Route 66, surrounded by desert dust I only recognize from drives to Vegas (I remember nothing about drives from Vegas except for pain and regret from not flying home). ![]() It’s time to dine at my first Cracker Barrel.īefore enlightenment, a drive’s in order. ![]() bubble, but times change, and it’s time to find out if this restaurant's legend is valid or just nostalgic nonsense run amuck. boy in his watching-carbs-more-than-NASCAR L.A. When you’re born, raised and still living in L.A., you, like me, might’ve heard of the iconic restaurant chain, but not enough to seek country-ham knowledge, so you, like me, are more than likely Alicia Silverstone levels of Clueless on the matter. in Victorville-only one question came to mind: What the hell is Cracker Barrel? But months ago, when this Angeleno read that Cracker Barrel would open the very first California outpost-restaurant number 649, sitting 80 miles outside L.A. It’s maybe one of your earliest dining memories. You’ve most certainly dined on full-fat-dairy-blessed rectangles of hash brown casserole, hunks of meatloaf and one of the 200 million handmade biscuits they serve a year. You’ve probably played checkers on the front porch, swaying in a rocking chair and waiting for your table while family members shop for glass jars of bubble gum and soda pop in the old country store. If you’ve visited the Southern-food mecca that is Cracker Barrel, you’ve probably experienced the eggs’ and grits’ gravitational pull. ![]()
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