What is a "Greasy Spoon"?
There is nothin worse to a Trucker, after many long miles and hours behind the wheel, than to pull into a place where the food is terrible. The Waitress sets a plate of something in front of you that makes you think of them two squashed animals you just passed up on the Interstate. You know, the ones that looked like 'possums with a gallon of used motor oil poured over'em and stunk up so bad the buzzards wouldn't even peck at 'em and you had to roll the windows down to help blow the smell out of the cab...you remember...right? So you look at this and think, "My God. Do I eat this or bury it?" Just as you start to call the waitress back over to get some reassurance that this was your order, cause this in front of you bares no resemblance to the picture on the menu, your gut reaches out and grabs hold of your spleen, sending a message to your tired brain that you had better send down somethin' fast or there's gonna be trouble.
Not sure if your stomach is revolting over the plate before you or you're so hungry you could eat the north end of a south bound mule, your hand instinctively stabs somethin' on the plate and aims for the large salivating hole at the bottom of your face. Your brain screams through out this "What are you doing!? You should at least smell it first!"
Five minutes of furious attack on the entree has passed. As you sign the receipt for your chow, your stomach releases it's precursor to the coming nights events. The noxious fume slaps the cashier in the face. Being the veteran she is she quickly points to the isle where the antacids are on display, along with several antidiarrheal medications. You turn to look, and you're amazed at the huge selection. Making her recommendation of what she believes works best, she slams the cash register shut with a bump of her hip and heads toward the kitchen, leaving you to ponder the wonders of gastric intestinal relief.
Before you can decide, between "Runny John's Home-style Rectal Remedy" and good ol' "Pink-stuff" your stomach launches it's onslaught.
This time it's not forcing anything back to the entrance of the tunnel. Instead it throws it's entire contents, with great protest, toward the exit.
Like a rookie at the wheel of a log truck on a mountain road full of "hairpin turns" and "switchbacks", the mass begins it's descent. You realize you need to be in a place of solitude, and fast! No time to perouse a magazine rack for reading material...no, no, this is a race to save you the embarrassment of doing laundry in just a T-shirt and shoes.
Ten feet from a safe area, you are slowed to a tip toe trot. It seems your ass will not put up with the cruel joke the stomach has placed upon it and it refuses to hold on to the SH!T.
I leave to you the satisfaction of your own imagination.
For I have played out this scenario countless times in my driving career. I have won some, and other I've had to do laundry in just a T-shirt and shoes. There's just no way to tell if what you're about to eat, in some place you've never been, will be conducive to a happy time later in the evening.
You will find, as you learn what the "road life" is all about, what works best for you when the time comes.
As far as what the definition of a "Greasy Spoon" is......well, suffice it to say that it's a place where a driver can park his rig and eat.
Commercial trade, business, movement of goods or money, or transportation from one state to another, regulated by the Federal Department Of Transportation (DOT).
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