First of all, the "Roadfood" books contain some of my flat-out favorite writing. Sometimes I think I'd rather read a Stern-scribed paragraph devoted to a cheeseburger than eat one. The paragraph is often at least equally satisfying, and doesn't magically turn into a poor-smelling brown thing that begs to exit your asshole while you're in the middle of a particularly good "Seinfeld" you haven't seen in awhile. I'm just trying to get the poop reference out of the way early here. Stay with me.
So I like the Sterns a lot, and I envy their carefree life of cruising the back roads of America, encountering hole-in-the-wall diners, sampling the local fare without regard for personal health, and later giving the unsung propreitors their due in adjective-laden writeups that, when their enthusiasm levels run particularly high, range from ravenous lust to real love (they compare the taste of a Kentucky-based eatery's fried chicken to a first kiss). Their best encapsulations read like poetry, odes to shoo-fly pie and red-and-white checkered tablecloths that I flip to repeatedly, often (really) wiping tears both incredulous and ridiculous from my eyes. I enjoy food.
And golly, so do the Sterns, who on their jaunts routinely patronize ten restaurants a day, so it's good thing that they managed to wedge this memoir under their taut belts, because no doubt their bloated, tartar-sauce-oozing corpses will be heaped like so much country ham on hospital gurneys any day now. As always, their writing is engaging and descriptive, but rather lacking in the anecdote department. They eat and drive and eat and drive. Once the vicarious "Gee, I wish I could get paid to drive around all day eating ribs and pie" thrill wears off, what remains is pleasant enough but unsatisfying, like a...I don't know, like a friggin' sandwich that doesn't taste all that great. I left my lackluster-memoir-qualifying food similes in my other pants. Bottom line here is what the Sterns eat turns out to be far more compelling than the manner in which they eat it.