Once the sacred cathedrals of greasy hash and greasier eggs, truck stops were grimy joints where surly waitresses took your order of shit on a shingle while gruff cooks kept the flattop fryer running all day and all night; meanwhile, out back, a bulky concrete cowboy is popping ephedrine while making fast friends with a spun lot lizard who needs $20 bucks and needs it fast, man.
Yes, these mighty outlets of diesel fuel and cheap grub that dotted the mythical highways and mystical byways across this stolen land of America have mostly disappeared, replaced with a scathingly corporate scene that is pretty much just one Subway sandwich shop after another, all as uniformed and soulless as their $5 meatball marinara footlongs.
Driving down barren I-35 however, I felt the twisted bite of that road demon deep in my seat-heated back and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a pang of Mini-Thins withdrawal; no, that’s when I saw a sign proclaiming that Stuckey’s, one of the more classic of classic truck stops, is finally back in Oklahoma—Marietta, in fact.
Urging me to take Exit 15—about 30 or so miles from the Red River—Stuckey’s is now primarily known as a brutally kid-friendly joint that sells an awful lot of those inedible pecan logs, but, still, if it’s enough to make me feel even a little bit like I’m in a Dave Dudley song, well then I’m just a truck drivin’ Kia Soul drivin’ son of a gun. Pass the red-eye gravy, hoss.
As the tires crunched on the gravel parking lot, it set in quickly from the outside that this isn’t the Stuckey’s of my youth. Basically a refurbished gas station of sorts, sure they’ve got the coffee cups, Mexicans blankets, lacquered ‘gator heads and, of course, all types of licensed confectionaries, but it didn’t really feel like a classic Stuckey’s.
Like most things around here though, it manages to be a completely alien take on the famed place, giving a decidedly small-town Okie bent to the narrative. For example, inside was a little café called Turbo Joe’s that promised “fresh and hot” food in “two minutes.” But what intrigued me even more was the MS Paint signage on the door that promised two eggs and toast for only 99 cents.
Sure, I could have spent that money on a sugar-free Ol’ Glory and a few Horny Goat Weed capsules, but it felt like the best breakfast deal to come along the Oklahoma interstate in at least 50 years—of course I had to take advantage of it.
Giving the sullen cook behind the counter my measly buck, they weren’t lying: in two minutes flat, there was a basically perfect sunny-side up pair of “chicks” sided with two “life-rafts” sliced into a few convenient triangles. But will a buck’s worth of egg and bread take me on to Texas with a satisfied mind?
After a dropping a bit of prepackaged ketchup and salsa on the eggs, it sure was a helluva lot better than I expected, greasier than my hair and twice as edible. Even better, the toast was defiantly delicious, having soaked in the steady grease of the grill, creating an almost too decadent taste for my impoverished blood.
Yep, it was a sturdy enough breakfast that gave me that pilled-up county mountie desire to mash the motor and put the hammer down on into San Antone, which I beyond willfully did.
If there was one drop of lifeblood in this Stuckey’s, something that gives it the honest appeal of a dingy truck stop, it’s the unusually clean Turbo Joe’s. It’s damn good to know that some aspects of the plaid-shirted American cornerstone of the dirty road continue to live on, clogging the hearts and souls of the scant patrons that curiously fly through here.
And, in case you’re wondering, there were no sleeper creepers shuffling around and trust me, I scoured that whole pickle park—I was on vacation after all. Cómpralo ya!
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Follow Louis on Twitter at @LouisFowler and Instagram at @louisfowler78.
Looks like you’re ignoring your second chance, but I really appreciate your reviews…typically a reminder of where not to eat.
Unless you’re the man’s nutritionist or cardiologist, you have zero place to judge his dietary habits.
“…you have zero place to judge his dietary habits.”
I defer to the management here, but my impression was that TLO was, in fact, a judgement-inclusive zone.
Two eggs and toast aren’t such an unhealthful meal.
Obsessing over someone else’s allegedly unhealthful diet will send you to an early grave a lot faster than actually eating one. Life is short, Goat. The trick is moderation.
LOL. Louis came out to the TLO Holiday Bowling Night and was in great shape. Keep it up, Louis.
It’s not a real Stuckey’s. It’s a local business stealing trademarks and trying to cash in on old Boomer nostalgia.
If there were a Pulitzer for what you do you would win it hands down!!
I’m still laughing about the rudeness you encountered while panhandling – “get a job lardass”!
The only thing I love more than Dave Dudley is a diner and lingo that take me back to my Frank and Ernest by Alexandra Day days. I’ll be sure to check this out next time I visit those shitheads to the south.
Love your reviews.
One quick note: Marietta (Exit 15) is actually…15 miles from the Red River bridge, not 30.
“…spun lot lizards…” and, “…sleeper creepers…”.
Oh my, certainly wasn’t ready for that (those) in my food review.
Memories of the Stuckey’s at the Cromwell exit on I 40 from the ’60’s is a little different. At the risk of sounding like something from the OKCTalk nostalgia thread, there was alot less, in fact, no memory of lot lizards. No concern about the dietary habits of others, and just pink candy cigarettes, and nut logs as I recall. Nothing about better or worse back then, just a little less concern about everything.
You must have missed “High Fly” Season in Marietta. The renovation crew hadn’t quite made it to the bathrooms, a prerequisite of dire importance when this ol’ gearjammer travels with the Clampetts in tow.
My “hyped up” memories of Stuckeys passed on to the boy (8 yo) as we pulled off at the rebranded Choke & Puke were soon dashed as I hit the door.
While I’m sure some new infusion of blood, sweat & tears and a few hundos was spent on trying to spruce up the joint, no amount of imported knick-knacks at 500% markup could save it.
I thought Stuckys is back? Could this still be the “hey Mom stop the car there’s a Stuckey’s” signatured angled roof of my youth with all kinds of pop-gun, candy and root beer floats to bloat me back into 1978???
Upon steering the boy through the “imported” Oklahoma made inventory I directed him the the facilities.
Ahh, the grand dame of highway roulette is clean or not? One hole or two? Will there be TP?
Upon entering this refuge upon the barren prairie I was indeed teleported back. Off color faded banana yellow laminate and the flickering ballast told me it was of 1977… which may have been the last time anyone checked on this
throne room.
Then they came as if drawn by a beacon of freedom as the door slowly scraped shut across the never ending mosaic of off white one-inch with black grout, the horde was awakened.
Perhaps we threw off the smell of a “fresh kill” as we had yet to really allow the early August afternoon warm greasy mist to apply.
“Dad!… there’s flies in here.” Yes bubba, I replied they won’t bite. Are you sure? I think so if you hurry.
My regrets of having been drawn by the billboard at mile marker 57 were surfacing, how could Stuckeys corporate (is there a corporate office or was the trademark expired?) allow this Okie-standard attempt to bear their respected name?
I was as confused as a wiggle wagon trucker with two blowouts and one spare.
How can we escape without a pecan log or gator head? Meeting the Mrs. at the restroom hallway entrance gave me all the push for the 103F air I needed… “we’re never stopping here again,” she said without a blink. Who knows what hellish wormhole she was transported through but there was no further discussions as we pulled the boy through the overpriced dust collectors and out the door.
I’d say you can keep your $2 and keep it in Georgia Overdrive past this exit 15 attempt at nostalgia… after all if this promise of time travel delivers you to a total bust, you’ll be better off staying in your lane.