Something about tailgates makes food taste better, and makes people act differently. One time I brought my in-laws to a tailgate when we played the wife's alma mater. When one of the eggs fell onto the grass and cracked but did not break, my mother-in-law -- who could have been an extra on the Stepford Wives -- picked it up and said, "do you think you can save it? Just add it to mine. It'll be fine." This is a woman who bleaches countertops after cooking with chicken or eggs (not really, but close) and throws out milk days before its expiration date. Yet she ate an egg sandwich cooked in bacon grease (some of it could have been weeks old) while drinking half-screwdriver, half-Mimosas out of a Solo Cup, and loved it. The quintessential American dining experience isn't Thanksgiving and it isn't Easter. It's in a parking lot on a brisk fall morning, preferably in bucolic East Hartford, Connecticut.
