I’m back from Philly, wearing a shirt covered with cat hair to prove it. I took a train there after work on Wednesday, which brought me to Penn Station in the city. I haven’t been to Penn Station in years, but if you can somehow picture a train terminal mixed with a dilapidated shopping mall mixed with enough hardcore city grime to build a second city solely out of grime, that’s Penn, and that’s where I spent two hours waiting for a train last Wednesday night.
Since I was going to get to my hotel pretty late, the odd assortment of eateries in Penn Station provided my only opportunities for dinner. The place is kind of like an airport, and whenever I’m in an airport alone, I feel too stupid to go to any real, respectable restaurant. The rare times that I have, I rushed through the entire meal making sure to be on my cell the entire time, because I have a complex about eating out alone and can’t stop thinking that everyone is looking at me.
So, aiming to eat quick, I stumbled onto a disgusting food court composed of several small fast food joints. I say it’s disgusting, but the place was great. Looked like it hadn’t been remodeled since the 1600s, with stained glass touches, all kinds of weird, broken tile mosaics, and the ultimate showstopper: A Roy Rogers.
Roy Rogers restaurants used to be all over the place when I was growing up, and I often lobbied to marry their fried chicken. Then, they all went away. The franchise didn’t completely die off, but there were just a handful of restaurants left for a great many years. While the owners are now trying to rebuild the once great house of chicken, it’s been a slow burn, and this tiny shack in the middle of Penn Station is the only Roy Rogers I’ve seen for roughly a decade. Obviously, I had to eat there.
Research tells me that this particular restaurant is probably privately owned and not a true franchisee. It was tiny, gritty and staffed by demons, but against all better judgment, I handed a dirty hand my five bucks and left with a tray full of familiar fried fowl and a misshapen biscuit. Incredibly, the chicken tasted exactly the same as I’d remembered. Crispy, crunchy, oily and guilt ridden.
They even had the Fixins Bar! The mighty Fixins Bar! The place where customers could doll up their sandwiches with all kinds of day-old toppings and unmarked condiments!
This means nothing to you if you’re in one of the few towns where Roy Rogers restaurants are still competitive with the larger fast food chains, but for me, it was like someone let me borrow their time machine with the rule being that I could only use it to eat food once loved.
I didn’t finish the chicken because the only seat left in the place was a tiny table practically attached to the order counter and I felt really dumb eating there, but now, whenever life throws me a curveball, I’ll know that salvation in the form of binge eating can be found in the filthiest corner of Penn Station. Yay!
Happy SNT.
Posted by Matt. E-mail me!
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Don’t know if anyone mentioned this, but near where I used to live in Long Island, waaaaay out east in Shirley, there’s one.
That is the very same Roy Rogers I talked about earlier, Tom, but for some strange reason, I haven’t eaten there yet. (I was at a NJ rest stop’s RR coming back from my first trip to Great Adventure.)