Cracker Barrel. It’s a store, it’s a restaurant. It’s home cooking served on a national scale. It’s comfort food yet the atmosphere is oddly disturbing. It’s where you go when you’re 5 miles to empty in the middle of nowhere and you’re hangry for something a little “classier” than Dairy Queen. It is a confounding enigma that fascinates me from a distance.
Naturally, I wrote them a letter.
Cracker Barrel's reply.
Dear Bobbye (also, really? Bobbye? Is that pronounced like "Bobby" or does it rhyme with "Popeye", because I'm really rooting for the latter), I don't think you read my letter. I was super hoping for some memorabilia. Look at all this loot! You couldn't have spared a keychain, a tin of old-fashioned fudge, a washcloth with some folksy text on it, a side of cheese grits?
We are done, Cracker Barrel. Done forever. Or at least until I get stranded in Suckhole, Kentucky and need a shot of lard to the veins for sustenance.