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Robby Lozano / Food Styling: Margaret Dickey
I can still picture it. It’s 1998 in Gatlinburg, TN, and the needle on my gas tank is dipping into a sad, horizontal slump. I’m also starving. I’ve got exactly eight minutes before I’m due at my summer job down the road, and of course I’ll use every second of that.
I quickly pull my bright blue ‘92 Toyota Tercel into a bare-bones lot I’ve passed a dozen times before but never visited—a mom-and-pop gas station with no signage. I park beside the station’s single gas pump, which looks so old I question whether it’s functional or merely decorative. For a second, I consider trying it, but the idea of fiddling with antiquated mechanisms before work sounds like a gamble I don’t have time for. (I could always count on those mystery gallons left after the needle hit E—ah, the promise of the analog gas gauge.)
The truth is, I’m here to fuel myself anyway. My friends swear this place has the best biscuits and gravy in town. I’m skeptical—the building’s no-frills appearance doesn’t exactly scream, “Come on in!”
My idealistic teenage self is usually drawn to the idea of a more polished bistro—the kind with striped awnings, an A-frame chalkboard menu scrawled in curly handwriting, and cheerful bursts of seasonal blooms spilling from hanging baskets.
But the temptation of a good meal is enough to snap me out of it and get me through the front door. Inside, I’m immediately greeted by the smells of biscuits baking and the steady hiss of bacon on the griddle. I spot a tiny kitchen and counter tucked into the back corner—a familiar setup in country markets like this one, where all the food is made in plain sight.
It doesn’t take long for the friendly cook to emerge from the steamy haze and take my order. He splits the biscuits in half and ladles the creamy white sausage gravy over the top, filling in every nook and cranny. After quickly paying, I hustle back to my car, where I plop the squeaky Styrofoam clamshell on my bright yellow CD wallet and peel out of the parking lot with minutes to spare.
The aroma of sausage gravy is almost too much to bear, so I rip open the plastic-wrapped fork with my teeth and sneak a bite from the passenger seat between shifting from fourth to fifth gear. All at once, I’m overwhelmed by the spicy, savory sausage, the rich, peppery gravy, and the buttery, flaky biscuit.
I can taste the time, energy, and love that were infused into this meal.
Growing up in East Tennessee, I had tasted biscuits and gravy before—mostly from friends’ parents or local diners since my mom was from Chicago and my grandparents lived out of state. But in this moment, nothing compares to the bite I just tasted. There are no surprise lumps of flour in the gravy or tough edges around the biscuits. I can taste the time, energy, and love that were infused into this meal.
That meal became more than just breakfast—it taught me a lasting lesson: Never judge a restaurant by its cover. It’s a theme that played out repeatedly during my time as a working teen in the Smoky Mountains. A good chunk of my paycheck went to tasting my way through all the local diners, cafés, and every under-the-radar spot locals swore by.
The best Reuben sandwich I’ve ever had came from my uncle’s business, which operated as a gas station, cabin rental office, market, and grill. My co-workers and I regularly ordered chess pie bars from a café that looked more like a rundown house than a business. (No matter how many recipes I try, I still can’t replicate them.)
Most of the eateries I frequented weren’t the slightest bit concerned with curb appeal. Instead, each owner put the time and effort into the things that truly mattered: perfecting recipes and building friendly customer relationships.
Patience, love, and blinders to the mess—that’s what matters most.
Now, almost three decades later, when I make biscuits and gravy for my kids, I think of that gas station and everything it represents. You really can’t rush sausage gravy—unless you want that chalky taste of flour. It needs time (at least 20 minutes of simmering to be exact). And frozen biscuits will do in a pinch, but nothing beats the made-from-scratch kind, no matter what kind of disaster it leaves behind on your kitchen counters. Patience, love, and blinders to the mess—that’s what matters most.
I wish I could say that each batch reminds me of my grandma’s kitchen or someplace more sentimental, but that was never my story. Instead, each bite immediately transports me back to my little car, with its Hawaiian-print seat covers, ‘90s bangers blaring through a tape-to-CD adapter, and a gravy-soaked biscuit in the passenger seat.
These days, I may not be speeding down the Gatlinburg Parkway with biscuit crumbs on my lap, but I still chase that same feeling: discovering something unexpectedly good in an unassuming place. It’s why I have a Google Maps list of hole-in-the-wall spots to try soon, and why I ask too many questions of any employee who’ll put up with me.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the best meals aren’t always the prettiest. They’re the ones that catch you by surprise and create new memories that last long after the last bite. Sometimes, they even come in a Styrofoam clamshell, eaten one-handed, with the windows rolled down and the radio turned up.
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