Gather 'round, friends, for I've got a story to tell ...

Thursday afternoon, my mission was to deliver my sons to their mother, who had a bridal shower to attend after work and wanted to take the sprouts along to greet their many adoring fans. That necessitated piloting my van into Charlotte, which I try never to do on weekdays since rush hour traffic makes me break out in hives and fantasize about driving a tank.

Once the kiddo was delivered, I realized it was almost 5:00 p.m. If I tried to head home, I'd be wading into the teeth of rush hour and spend an hour sucking exhaust fumes. I had skipped lunch, and my stomach was beginning to send up messages inquiring if my throat had been cut.

OK, I'm lying. I never intended to drive home in traffic. From the time a week ago that this trip was planned, I knew where I'd be heading after the delivery: Lupie's.

Loyal readers will recall that I've rhapsodized about Lupie's before. It's an unassuming little place, a house renovated into a homey restaurant with wood floors and fixtures, and open kitchen, a Harley-Davidson pinball machine and groovy world-beat music on the in-house system. The menu is a one-sheet, printed on both sides. They don't make a lot of different dishes, but everything they turn their hand to is done well.

And now, a small confession: My very first restaurant job was in the kitchen of Hooters. It was there that I developed a taste for Buffalo wings which has never faded. I love 'em, and have eaten them all over the country, off paper plates and linen tablecloths.

So, when I noticed that Lupie made hot wings, I called her bluff and ordered a plate as my appetizer. It was here that my expected good meal became something far more fulfilling. The wings were baked, and of a size that left me wondering if I'd have room for anything beyond them. The sauce (hot is the ONLY flavor, they're not for spice wimps) wafted into my nose first, and completely wrecked my attempt to finish a page of "A Cook's Tour" before beginning. I looked at my plate and saw the red-brown sauce covering the wings, laden with bits and flecks of all manner of seasonings. The requisite blue cheese dressing (made in-house) and celery were pushed well off to the side to make room for the main event, and in truth I don't think I touched a stick of the green stuff.

A good "hot" wing should make you sweat and even perhaps open your sinuses without bludgeoning you into submission. There should be some flavor beyond the heat to keep it interesting. On this plate, I found those requirements and much more. The sauce had a slowly building heat that had my shirt collar damp and my hair plastered to my head after the fourth wing, but there were hints of flavors underneath that kept me eating, trying to decode the recipe. Normally, I can figure out at least the main ingredients of a sauce after a few bites, but I was completely bamboozled by Lupie's wings. Halfway through, I gave up my sleuthing and abandoned myself to sheer gustatory glee, dipping chunks of sauce-laden chicken into the thick blue cheese and gobbling all up in a manner that would make a barbarian blush.

You know you're having a good meal when you have to wash your face between courses, and the wings necessitated a trip to the lavatory to do just that. The waiter didn't insult me by offering me a moist towelette. One look at my eating style and he realized he didn't have enough of them in stock to do me justice.

(Side note: Even the bathroom graffiti at Lupie's is cool, meditating on everything from Our Man Bush to the Ramones to Lazarus Long.)

After my big-enough-for-three appetizer, it was time for the entree. Guessing correctly that I'd have my fill of heat with the wings, I had eschewed Lupie's famous chili in favor of the daily special, chicken and dumplings. Having noted that the chalkboard at the door was announcing the presence of fresh spring veggies, I selected a couple for my sides.

Chicken and dumplings is an art. Anyone who says otherwise has either never had it done right or never had any success making it themselves. Lupie is the Degas of dumplings, the Whistler of white gravy, the Toulouse-Lautrec of simmered chicken. In short, I was served a bowl full of such ethereal goodness that I almost ate straight through the bottom. The chicken was tender and flavorful, and the dumplings had that meltaway mouth feel that the local Johnson & Wales students will spend 20 years trying to achieve.

And the veggies! Yellow squash that had never seen the inside of a refrigerator was married with yellow onion that had been sweated until it was buttery and sweet, making a dish that would come as close as anything could to making me a vegetarian. And next to the squash, a pile of sweet yellow corn, skillet-cooked with a bit of butter and salt, demanded that I use my cornbread to chase down every last kernel.

At this point, I was feeling like Tony Bourdain after his sumo dinner. I was thinking about the drive home, and wondering if my seat belt had enough slack to fit around my distended belly when my waiter, evil fiend that he was, mentioned the one thing on earth capable of making me open my mouth to do anything other than belch: kuchen.

For the uninitiated, kuchen (at least as Lupie interprets it) is a cobbler-like confection with a top and bottom crust that taste very reminiscent of good shortbread. It came topped with a generous dollop of rapidly-melting whipped cream. The peaches were sweet, and still retained a bit of body rather than being cooked to mush. The crust was light and sweet, with a richness that led me to think the butter used in it didn't come from Land O'Lakes, but perhaps from a friend's cow.

I polished off the kuchen, and waited quietly for the kitchen staff to put together a travois of produce crates to haul me to my vehicle.

Start to finish, this was one of the finest restaurant meals I've ever had.

Now I see you out there, fingers poised to fire off angrily inquisitive e-mails to me. "I live in Cleveland/Houston/Los Angeles/Miami, why should I care about some dinky little joint in a dinky little town like Charlotte?"

Longtime readers, you can probably sing along with this next verse. All you Houstonians who have discovered George's will know the tune well.

The reason I tell you about this meal is not to drive you mad with hunger, although that's a side benefit the sadist in me thoroughly enjoys. No, I do this to illustrate to you the sort of fantastic eats that can be had once you get the heck away from anything resembling a neon sign or a cartoon mascot and seek out the "real" food in your area.

Open the phone book! Don't look at the big display ads. Look at the ordinary listings. Find one that's not too far from you and go give a look-see. Do so especially if the name of the restaurant is the same as the name of the owner. If a man or woman is willing to put their name on a place, you know they're putting out food in which they feel substantial pride.

So tonight, when your kids or significant other start going on about pizza buffets, all-you-can-eat slopfests or other chain-restaurant lures, pilot the family truckster instead down a side street or two and find your own Lupie's.

Got a question? Comment? Topic you'd like to see covered? Drop me a line anytime!