The New Yorker's Calvin Trillin loves food while despising the très haut Francophile gourmet—the kind who can produce a dissertation on the proper consistency of sauce Béarnaise. Trillin knows that the search for good food requires constant vigilance particularly when outside the Big Apple. Not that Cincinnati and Houston and Kansas City (his hometown) lack magnificent places to eat—if one can resist the importunities of those well-meaning ignoramuses who insist on hauling you off to La Maison de la Casa House, the pride of local epicures too dumb to realize that the noblest culinary creations of the American heartland are barbecued ribs, fried chicken, hash browns and hamburgers. Trillin is ready to do battle for K.C.'s Winstead's as the home of the greatest burger in the USA. Generally, he advises, you will do fine if you avoid ""any restaurant the executive secretary of the chamber of commerce is particularly proud of."" Also, any restaurant with (ply)wood paneling and ""atmosphere,"" where the food is likely to taste ""something like a medium-rare sponge."" This then is not a celebration of multi-star ""restaurants"" but of diners, roadhouses, eateries—the kind that serve food on wax paper or plastic plates and to hell with Craig Claiborne. With tongue in stuffed cheek Trillin gives the finger to the food snobs, confessing his secret vices with fiendish glee and high good humor.

In this delightful and delicious book, Calvin Trillin, guided by an insatiable appetite, embarks on a hilarious odyssey in search of “something decent to eat.” Across time zones and cultures, and often with his wife, Alice, at his side, Trillin shares his triumphs in the art of culinary discovery, including Dungeness crabs in California, barbecued mutton in Kentucky, potato latkes in London, blaff d’oursins in Martinique, and a $33 picnic on a no-frills flight to Miami. His eating companions include Fats Goldberg, the New York pizza baron and reformed blimp; William Edgett Smith, the man with the Naughahyde palate; and his six-year-old daughter, Sarah, who refuses to enter a Chinese restaurant unless she is carrying a bagel (“just in case”). And though Alice “has a weird predilection for limiting our family to three meals a day,” on the road she proves to be a serious eater–despite “seemingly uncontrollable attacks of moderation.”

New Ticknor & Fields, 1983. First edition. 8vo. Hard cover binding, 184 pp.

In the 1970s, Calvin Trillin informed America that its most glorious food was not to be found at the pretentious restaurants he referred to generically as La Maison de la Casa House, Continental Cuisine. With three hilarious books over the next two decades—American Fried; Alice, Let's Eat; and Third Helpings\—he established himself as, in Craig Claiborne's phrase, the Walt Whitman of American eats. Trillin's three comic masterpieces are now available in what Trillin calls The Tummy Trilogy.