A Purdue graduate as well, Hank Stram coached Dawson in college and in Kansas City when the Chiefs rode to victory in Super Bowl IV, 1969.

Consisting of a hamburger steak, two eggs, potatoes topped with sausage gravy and two grilled biscuits, The Drew Brees Favorite is as scrumptuous and savory as it is hearty and filling, and it can only be found at the Triple XXX Family Restaurant (“On The Hill But On The Level,” circa 1929) in Brees’ college town, West Lafayette, Indiana, home of the Purdue Boilermakers. The Triple XXX in Indiana is one of two remaining of a chain of restaurants named for a popular turn-of-the-century root beer. The Triple XXX “Thirst Station” was a roadside destination for many along stretches of highway all over this land. I asked owner Greg Ehresman why he thought their restaurant withstood the test of time. He said, “College kids. They have big stomachs and small wallets.” He went on to say, “if not for the college, we wouldn’t be here either.”

After breezing through the Brees Favorite, I headed to my alma mater, DePauw University in Greencastle, Indiana to taste — for the first time since graduating in 2003 — my favorite sandwich, the GCB.

The sheet says it all. This grease-stained sheet has hung in Marvin’s for at least a thousand years.

Marvin’s, home of the infamous Garlic Cheeseburger and many other gut-busting concoctions — The Wet Burrito, Apple Crisps, and the Stromboli to name a few – to the untrained eye is just another hangout. It’s the same place found on college campuses the world over. It’s that place that carries one basic formula: greasepit plus students’ laundry money equals legendary success.

But this was my hang out. Marvin’s would deliver right to my door. It was open late. My friends worked there. Sourced from SYSCO, the food tasted like it fell down from heaven. And just what is a GCB? My friends and fellow alums, The Paupered Chefs, sent me to find out. After close inspection, I can only report what is already known. It’s a simple hoagie roll that’s been brushed with butter and dusted with garlic powder and salt. The cheese is American. The beef is grey. The combination, a Garlic Cheeseburger, is pure fodder for the “Freshman Fifteen.”

My favorite story about Marvin’s came from a friend’s dad who graduated in the early eighties. At the old Delta Tau Delta house, which was across the street from Marvin’s, they rigged a zip line with a clip and a washer which went from their kitchen window directly into the kitchen window at Marv’s. Supplied with a pad of kitchen tickets, the Delts — perpetually a football house — would cut out the middleman and write their own orders. Five minutes later, there’d be a knock on their bedroom door: it was the Marv’s Guy to the rescue!

As I drove around my alma mater admiring the new buildings and sidewalks, I made a promise to myself. Wherever possible, I want to support local restaurants before I hand my hard-earned cash over to a corporate chain, even if it means eating at the greasiest spot in town.

A Hill-Side tie made with vintage fabric found in a thrift store in Connecticut.

Jacket c/o Folk. Tie c/o Gitman Blue. Bicycle c/o Secret Forts. O’Malley frames c/o Oliver Peoples. Navy overdye chambray scarf c/o The Hill-Side.

Alongside Shaun Barneveld and James Wilson, Emil and I set out in my old stomping grounds, Fort Greene, Brooklyn, and he went to work with a big old film camera. The shots you see here are tests he snapped with his digital.

The Hill-Side rail stripe chambray scarf. The chambray jacket is c/o Sunny Sports. Emil bought it at Douglas Fir in Los Angeles.

This is one of Emil’s vintage French work jackets. They call it a “bleu de travail” which means “work blues.” I nearly bought one the other day at Eleven. The jeans are two-year-old APCs and the belt is from my beloved Leather Man Ltd.

Thanks to Chris, Emil, and Patrick for providing the beautiful clothing. Thanks too to Shaun and James for a great day. For my take on The Hill-Side, read the profile I put together. For more of our fun day in Fort Greene, see Flickr.

A Wells Fargo belt buckle from Tiffany. The shopkeeper wasn’t certain of its age, but he estimated it was at least 100 years old. This in mind, the leather was in great condition.

an exit sign from an old theatre

All other industrial-era furniture must bow before “His Majesty, The Somersault.”

I recently struck up a conversation with shopkeeper Steve. I saw an old hardware store apron hanging in the shop and mentioned something to him about my friends, The Paupered Chefs. They’d asked me if I’d possibly do a post on aprons. The next thing I know, Steve is emptying out this enormous army duffel filled with shop aprons.

And while I didn’t walk out with this podatrist’s model of the inner-workings of the foot, which I’ve wanted since my first trip here with Jorge, I did leave with a handsome US Army messenger bag, which Steve said dates back to the Rough Riders.

If you haven’t been, go there now before B4 It Was Cool is forced to change its name.

B4 It Was Cool
89 East Houston Street
New York, NY 10021

For more photos of B4 It Was Cool, visit Flickr.

A Clean-cut Chambray.

I call it “Rosie the Red Ox” (Babe the Blue Ox’s lil’ sis).

A pink University Stripe shirt was my favorite shirt in college. I wore a hole in the elbow. That sleeve now shines my shoes.

A Madras Plaid in primary colors.

This season, Seersucker is all plaidout.

For more recent coverage of GV, see BPMW’s blog, We Are the Market where they caught up with GV at (capsule) Paris. Slamxhype featured some of the shirts available exclusively at London’s Dover Street Market.

Perhaps it’s because I grew up riding my bike on parts of its Missouri remains, or it’s possible in a past life, I was a sharecropper, a real life Tom Joad, eager to stream past every mile of Route 66 to its bountiful end, an Eden known as California. Either way, I’ve always felt a kinship to this stretch of gravel, attracted to its ever so American story, that bootstrap mentality that seems never more pertinent than today. As someone on the road told me, “You move until you find that what suits ye,” and God forbid, if the fellow wasn’t speaking directly to me, I’d have thought I was hearing it from a Higher Power, some sign from above telling me to “Git a move on!”

Before I delve too deep into the mire of my own self-reflection and philosophical quandary, allow me to redirect you. Imagine, if you will, you’ve lost everything but the clothes on your back, your old jalopy, and about fifty dollars. You called Gary, Indiana your home, but now, you sit at the counter at Lou Mitchell’s on Jackson Boulevard in Chicago. The waitress brings you a cup of coffee and a cheese danish the size of both your swollen hands and says, “This one’s on da house. Next one you’s gotta pay fer it.”

That’s what happened to me, a couple days before Thanksgiving when I made my first visit. I pulled up to one of the winding counter tops at this 87-year-old institution. I sat down, road-weary, bloodshot, crushed, said two things: “Coffee,” and “What’s good?” and what happened next floored me. My server, in fact the entire waitstaff, crowded around my menu ready and willing to help me decide what to eat. As I considered my options, I settled on my standard, a sausage and cheese omelette. “You gotta have a pastry. Here. Free.” Coffee was bottomless. Food was fast. Service with a smile. I even got a little history lesson. As is tradition at Lou Mitchell’s, kids still get a free scoop of ice cream “if they ask nicely.”

Another old diner I discovered, The Old Log Cabin in Pontiac, Illinois is the kind of place you’d go if a half-hour into your drive you’d sprung a leak or worse a flat. While neither happened to me, I was drawn to this place because I heard they had batting cages out back. I arrived to discover the batting cages died a painful death many years ago. It was so painful, the owners left them there for posterity’s sake. When I walked in, wearing a suit and tie, it was as if I stepped and the earth rotated towards me. Every head in the place left the TV screen and craned itself in my direction. As people went back to their morning conversation, their Regis and Kelly, the daughter of the owner offered me a menu with, “Are you driving the nice convertible?” “Yeah. Am I parked in the wrong spot?” “No, you’re just the only person who’d drive a convertible to eat here.”

When my food arrived, I must admit I had to ask which was the toast and which were the eggs, but they were cheap and filling and served with a smile, and the coffee was strong and hot. I still wish I could’ve smacked a few baseballs at a chain link fence. I’m sure I’d have worked up such an appetite that they could have fed me a log, covered in gravy, and I would have been happy.

Next stop down the road, Ambler’s Texaco in Dwight, Illinois, the longest operating gas station along Route 66, has been retrofitted with antique oil cans, soda bottles, and many of the employees’ uniforms.

As I pulled into Staunton, Illinois, I passed Country Classic Cars, part museum, part used car lot, part junkyard, all fun.

After two breakfasts, I wasn’t in the mood for lunch, but I’m always in the mood for a milkshake, and the Crossroads Diner in Mt. Olive, Illinois makes a good one.

For but a moment, I considered advertising All Plaidout on the Crossroads Route 66 Diner place mat.

Stomach full, it was time to fill up the tank. By some serendipitous error, the GasBuddy App on my iPhone suggested Soulsby’s Shell station, a long defunct relic that’s been faithfully restored to reflect its glory days, was the closest — and likely the cheapest — station within my immediate radius.

While the wood house Shell station in tiny Mt. Olive was right up my alley, I waited till I was back in Chicago to fill up.

I’m thankful I waited. At a Shell Station in Chicago’s West Loop, this beautiful Bonneville bounced in, boppin’ to Chuck Berry’s “No Particular Place to Go,” a road trip song to end all road trip songs. The gentleman driving it said he worked on it for two years to get everything to his exacting specifications. “Time well-spent,” I replied. “Heck yeah. I’m thinking of wrecking it just to have something to do again.” That’s commitment.

Before heading back out, just another guy on the lost highway, I spent a bit of time hanging out with owner Pat Rhea at his joint Dell Rhea’s Chicken Basket in Willowbrook. I’ve never met a nicer guy, and the food was outstanding. Gabrielle, my bartender, made the selections for me. “Well what’re you drinkin?” “The Silver Bullet,” I said. She matched my Coors Light with a succulent, perfectly seasoned four piece chicken tenderloin that’s not too heavily breaded. It’s matched with their tart, house-made honey mustard and a smoky barbeque sauce. As Pat’ll tell you, it’s amazing.

Sucking back on my second Bullet, Gabrielle dished up a still bubbling crust of cheese and noodles and other stuff Food Network’s Guy Fieri called “The Colorado Cheese River running right through Flavortown.” Pat, appointed “Captain Creamy” by Mr. Fieri, simply calls it mac ‘n cheese. And it came, and Pat murmured sucking back on his Spaten, “You gonna finish that?” About three minutes later, he answered his own question. “Nice job… now try the dessert.”

The whipped cream nearly did me in, but the chocolate brownie sundae was the ultimate ending to a fun — and calorie-filled — day eating and sightseeing my way down Chicago’s section of Route 66. Pat even invited me back to try, Man Vs. Food style to out-eat his record of three whole chickens. It’s something like 27 pieces of chicken. I think I can handle it.

For all 145 photos of my exploration of Chicago’s portion of Route 66, see Flickr.

Julie made stockings with old flannel shirt sleeves.

Visual Merchandising Manager, Lisa Weier (L), alongside Julie (R) helps a customer with some last minute purchases.

“Did you see the ladder?” Julie asked. “Now that’s all plaidout.”

For the man who has everything, a blackwatch speed bag.

When I asked Julie what’s next, she said, “Well, with the tartans, I’ve pretty much got Scotland covered. Up next? America.” I, for one, cannot wait.

For now, there’s still time to plaid-clad your family, head to tartan’d toe. Before Santa beats you to it, dash over to Brimfield — or give them a call — today.

Brimfield
5219 N. Clark Street
Chicago, Illinois
312.593.6415

And what of Pierrepont Hicks? I’ll let Mr. Gannon’s e-mail speak for itself.

Subj: PPH

I was intrigued by the idea that a couple, young daughter in tow, would move from New York City to Minnesota to chase a passion for producing a beautifully handcrafted tie. Putting that much faith into a venture is something which will continue to impress me, and it’s something I will steadfastly support any day.

The Field Bow Tie

I was taken by their quote, “We tell our children to follow their dreams, shouldn’t we teach by example?” Also, “We will always be American-made.” The tie has a great weight, and a solid, quality construction. As the blaze orange contrasts with the tartan, it speaks to the versatility of its wear. I’ll throw it on a white oxford before a work meeting, or pair it with a blue chambray and a pair of muck boots to the Masten’s Corner Wild Game Dinner.
–
http://twitter.com/joegannon

###

As for that Wild Game Dinner? Mr. Gannon told me, flatly, “I’m pretty sure you’d get thrown out for any talk of websites. These are country folk. It took me a long time to get an invite. It’s like a poor, country boy’s Masons Lodge. Most of these cats are gentleman sportsman…. You better have a truck, though.”

We look forward to the coverage of the dinner, Joe. Thank you for sharing this video.

Special thanks to Kat and Mac McMillan of Pierrepont Hicks for sharing their quality ties with the world.

A regrettable name but one that’s stuck, all plaidout has been a blessing among blessings in my life. Over the course of the last year, I have developed some of the more important, more meaningful relationships in my life, many due in large part to this little web log. I’d like to take a minute to thank some of the people without whom this truly would be all played out.
In the summer of 2005, I moved from a small apartment in Queens into a smaller apartment on Manhattan’s Upper East Side with two friends from college, Nick Kindelsperger and Blake Royer. While I was busily toiling away at a conservatory program in Midtown, they were schlepping to temp jobs here, there, and everywhere with a single purpose: make enough money to support a burgeoning food blog created in the smallest imaginable kitchen in New York City. I marveled at their enthusiasm, their ingenuity, and their indomitable spirit. The lessons learned from watching The Paupered Chef, their blog, grow into the inimitable source it’s become were a major inspiration. In fact, it was a conversation with Blake and a mutual friend, Matt Dellinger, which planted the seeds that became all plaidout.

As the idea marinated, I became enamored with men’s clothing blogs of all stripes, but one, more than any other, A Continuous Lean, consistently piqued an interest; Mr. Michael Williams continually shines the light on people, places, and things I’ve always loved or always should have loved. To riff on something Nick Maggio of the awe-inspiring A Time To Get once said of Michael, “without him, none of us would be here.” So, thank you, Michael.

Another Michael, Mr. Michael Macko, revered in menswear circles not only for his incredible talents as a taste-maker, but also for his reputation as one of the most approachable men in this business, was kind enough to set aside some time over a lunch with me where he allowed me to bend his ear, spit-balling my ideas for stories as he listened intently and offered advice and guidance where possible. In fact, it was immediately following that lunch when I reached out to Mary Rose MacKinnon, Laurie Brooks, and Mac McKeever of L.L. Bean, who would go on to help me share the story of their Bean Boot and Boat-and-Tote factory. My first trip to Maine would not have been as special without the support of Foster Huntington, Jay Carroll, and the Shorey family, owners of Quoddy. That trip sent all plaidout on its way.

None of this would have been possible without Michelle Sydney, the best editor I’ve ever had; Cary Randolph Fuller, the best correspondent/editor/dreamgirl a guy could ask for; Joe Gannon and Michael Withrow, the best business-partners-in-the-making; Alex Beh, the best in the business, period, guy; Raan and Shea Parton of Apolis Activism; Chris Olberding of Gitman Vintage; Ryan Huber and Sam Parker of Context Clothing; James Wilson of Secret Forts; Brandon Capps of Drinkin’ & Dronin’; Janie Bryant of Mad Men; Emil and Sandy Corsillo of The Hill-Side and Hickoree’s Hard Goods; Chris and Kirk Bray of Billykirk; Patrick Torres-Wright of Mosley Tribes; Derek Galkin and Steven Tiller of SeaVees; Walker Lamond of Rules for My Unborn Son; Cory Ohlendorf of Valet Magazine; Ryan Willms of INVENTORY; Stephen Watson of Hamilton 1883; Hollister and Porter Hovey; Joanna Goddard; Ryan Plett; Jake Davis; Jenny Yamaguchi; Rob Parham; Mike Pietrus; Mary Randolph Norton; David Coggins; Jim Stewart; my very patient parents; my brother Ben and sister-in-law Sarah; and last, but certainly not least, Sarah Reilly, the first person to encourage me in this business. This is all her fault, folks.

And of course, I owe the deepest, most sincere thanks to You, my readers. The outpouring of supportive e-mail and comments at the end of posts are all very humbling. I cannot thank you enough, but I hope with the continued development of all plaidout you will allow me to try. I look forward to sharing a bunch of exciting new things I have waiting just ’round the bend. Thanks for your patience as I continue to develop as a writer, as a garmento, as a man.

- Max