Fooder Expose: The New Jersey Turnpike: Where food goes to die.

The drive from Philly to NYC is a paltry 2 hours. You'd think a man would be able to resist stopping at the roadside attractions along the way. Well, you'd be wrong. The "To" leg required a cigarette break and some relief from poetry radio, the only semi-tolerable pap on the dial. But the way back was a different, this time, I was hungry.

Enter: The Molly Pitcher Rest Stop: Birthplace of Cheese-thulu, Beast of 1,000 spare tires, Mother of the Unholy Saddlebags and High Priestess of the Star-Spawned Gut Busters.

Inside the belly of the beast.

Now, you may ask, was I really so hungry that I had to stop less than an hour from my destination? No. I could have waited. But I was ensnared by the lowest and basest of human whims: Nostalgia. Yes, along that noisy and congested stretch of asphalt, I saw something that rocked me back to my childhood; days spent with my grandmother clipping coupons and returning sale items for regular price.Two words--a name, which flung me back onto the happy trails of my youth: Roy Rogers. In honor of my dearly departed gran-gran, I now required a roast beef sandwich. 

The fabled Molly Pitcher stuffing some balls. Get ready for a colon blow!

Oh Roy Rogers! You were my heart's delight when I was 8. The guttering flame on the torch of the Neshaminy Mall's erstwhile glory. But time hath brought thee low; she hath turned thee into a painted mockery of thy former self, harlot though ye were.

My first indication that something was terribly wrong, aside from the slack-jawed grill attendants and stacks of pre-packaged sandwiched moldering under ancient heat-lamps, was the fact that my hamburger was not a hamburger. Alas, it was a breaded chicken sandwich with...what's this? Bacon and cheese.

Who the fuck eats chicken-baco-cheese sandwiches??? And why was it filed under hamburger? My heart sank; my stomach churned. Well, perhaps the succulent roast beef of my faded youth would bolster my spirits...

Jesus! What the fuck is this?! One bite and the sour taste of bile rose in my throat. This isn't meat! It's shoe leather. Maybe cat leather piled on a grease soaked bun. Why dear lord did I not immediately heave this abomination back into the hellfire that had produced it? Shame. Shame and regret. My shame was too great, my failure complete. I could not demand a refund because $10 was the price I had to pay to see what a crippling and humiliating passion nostalgia really is. I'm sorry Gran-Gran, but never again.

In my degradation I looked desperately for an escape, but the way out was barred. A throng of humped, gawking, female teenagers and their smug and smirking den mother were spreading out across the Molly Pitcher killing floor. Camera-phones aloft grinning they shared two notable characteristics: enough spots to dot a leopard and t-shirts advertising some new Christian boy band called "One-Direction." Of course I assume they must be Christian pop because their name implies the rapture and these girls looked like the butt end of the pope's smock. Apparently, these lads must have been somewhere nearby suckling on the old Roy Rogers teat. The proven existence of such things as Christain boy-bands and pre-pubescent stalkers was enough to make my already delicate innards launch a full revolt. I lurched for the exit.

We've got something in common...the infernal demon seed of Roy Rogers churns in our bowels!

Well, that was enough for me. I topped off my 24 oz bladder smasher and hoofed it for the rental car. My only desire after this excretory excursion was some south Philadelphia suburban oblivian.

So please, do yourself a favor. If you have to do anything other than smoke or walk your dog, and you see one of the many I-95 rest stops comin' up over the horizon, drive on by, man. Drive on by.