Ron and Joe Go to White Castle (Day 5)

By Ron Kantowski

Friday, June 5, 2009 | 12:12 p.m.

A lot of smart people (at least in Maxwell Smart terms) have been calling and E-mailing, wanting to know how my Midwestern vacation -- a k a "Ron and Joe Go to White Castle" -- turned out.

(Joe is my brother-in-law from Kansas. He did the driving while I made silly home movies.)

So shine up your white patent leather Clark Griswolds and let's go for a ride:

DAY FIVE

Chicago to Kansas City

Having given up on the idea that one of the three Christie Brinkley lookalikes who drove past us on I-80 were going to slow down for any reason, we soldiered on to Arthur Bryant's in Kansas City. The one in old downtown, near the site of old Municipal Stadium. The one near the corner of 12th Street and Vine, like in the song.

The real deal when it comes to authentic Kansas City barbecue.

Playboy magazine once declared that " ... the single best restaurant in the world is Arthur Bryant's Barbecue at 18th and Brooklyn in Kansas City."

Slow smoked over hickory and oak, splashed with Original or Rich & Spicy sauce, this barbecue will make your taste buds water. But here's the thing about Arthur Bryant's: You better know what you want, because if you don't, you will hold up the line. And if you hold up the line, the guy working the counter, who stands about 6-foot-13 and looks as mean as George Foreman the first time around, will glare at you. And you will be very frightened.

This is what happened to me in 2006. This is what happened to me again last week.

It's not that I wasn't prepared. I studied the menu from the back of the restaurant so I wouldn't hold up the line this time.

"Pulled pork sandwich," I said, taking two slide steps to the right, like ordering a bowl of Mulligatawny from the Soup Nazi on "Seinfeld."

"No pulled pork," snarled the 6-foot-13 guy.

I immediately broke into a cold sweat. What do I do now? He was glaring at me again.

"B-b-b-b-risket," I stammered.

The 6-foot-13 guy slopped a big pile of slow-smoked beef on a piece of of butcher paper, along with a couple of slices of plain white Wonder Bread.

He didn't have to say next. The 6-foot-13 guy never says next.

The cute girl behind me in the line, noting the 98 loaves of Wonder Bread stacked high on the shelf in front of the 6-foot-13 guy, made the mistake of asking for an extra slice of plain white.

Uh-oh.

"Only comes with two," she was told.

Later, on the way out, Joe ordered some burnt ends to go, to take home to his wife Terry. He told the 6-foot-13 guy he didn't need bread with that.

"Don't come with none."

Joe took his pile of burnt ends without saying another word as the two of us practically ran out the door.

I could still hear the old man on the pickle jar laughing when the Sully Sullenberger wannabe lowered the flaps on Southwest Flight 874 and pointed it toward the desert.

DAY FIVE RECAP:

--- Distance: 512 miles

--- Memorable line: "What the heck is that?" -- Joe, upon spotting the humongous Terrible Herbst casino sign rising from the Iowa plain near Osceola like a grain silo on steroids.

--- White Castles: None. The only White Castles in Iowa are the ones in your grocer's freezer. And those aren't the real ones.

--- Best beer: The last one of the trip, at Arthur Bryant's in Kansas City. It also was the coldest one.

--- You should have seen: The World's Largest Truck Stop on the other side of the Quad Cities; a bridge in Madison County.

--- Playing in the CD deck: "Roll on Down the Highway" by Bachman Turner Overdrive; lots of Warren Zevon.

--- Sports event du jour: None. The Quad Cities River Bandits were home against the Fort Wayne TinCaps but it was raining like a sonofagun.

--- Next stop: Home sweet home.