I can’t even remember the last time I ate at a Cracker Barrel—in fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever actually sat down for a full meal at one of their restaurants. My experience with the chain basically took place over the course of about two weeks one summer while living at home with my family on break from college.
My sister, Heidi, and I both applied for jobs there, hoping we could carpool. A few weeks later, this would prove to be as convenient as we had planned, when I was able to quit for the both of us with a single phone call. The woman who trained me—a chain-smoking southerner who wore probably as much eyeliner as she did hairspray—was instructed to set aside half an hour at the end of my shift to go over the corporate-issued Cracker Barrel workbook with me. This included a discussion and quiz about the history of the company, details on their various chicken fried entrees, and other such useful bits of information that I forgot as soon as I picked up my last paycheck.
So, when Keegan and I made our way back to Georgia to spend New Year’s Eve with the Martin family, I took the opportunity to indoctrinate my boyfriend into the gravy-covered kitsch of Cracker Barrel. When my brother-in-law, Jamie, heard where we’d eaten our lunch after we arrived, he said, “Oh hell, you can’t take him to Cracker Barrel and tell him that’s southern food.”
“But you know what? They do make a hell of a breakfast,” he grudgingly admitted.
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