XI. Thou Shalt Not Eat at Homeplace

For those of you unfamiliar with it, there is a restaurant in Catawba, Virginia called the Homeplace. It's located about forty minutes away from Blacksburg, along a road so twisty and backwoods that it can only truly be appreciated by people who own motorcycles or sports cars. I've been there a number of times, and it's always a special occasion.

The restaurant's primary hook is that it serves homestyle food to your entire party en masse. They'll bring out fried chicken, roast beef, biscuits, green beans, mashed potatoes, gravy, etc. in bowls for you to pass around the table, refilling them as necessary. It's just like a family reunion dinner, only without the fear of an awkward appearance of your drunk and/or crazy Uncle Ted.

This evening, I had the good fortune to go with some friends who had left town for the summer like good, sane college students are supposed to do. However, I ran into one of the Homeplace's vile traits for the first time ever. I had always heard that the Homeplace serves the best food on the Appalachian Trail, which stretches from Maine to Georgia, and runs right by the restaurant. That means that you're occasionally going to have some hikers at the restaurant who are in the middle of a trek of up to 2,174 miles. We were seated by a very large table of said hikers, whose body odor was so palpable it either countered or enhanced the effects of my allergy medication.

The entire reason for a journey to the Homeplace, however, is not the atmosphere. Tons of restaurants have hardwood floors. It's the opportunity to completely destroy your stomach from the inside out by filling it with as much food as you want for $13. Personally, I managed to get down four chicken breasts, and about two helpings of biscuits, mashed potatoes, and gravy. They even top it off with a helping of a random fruit cobbler just to spite whoever in the world suffers from famine. The restaurant is filled with what are most likely Bush supporters, who are so prevalent in Southwest Virginia. So to sum up, we've already got imperialism and gluttony out of the way during your visit. At this rate, why doesn't the Homeplace have an orgy room? I mean, let's stop kidding ourselves and just surrender to the ways of the Roman Empire. After eating there, I'm prepared to don a toga, get a boner, drink alcohol, and get my freak on in the name of the American Way.

But not before I get another biscuit.