The Best Burger Is Always at the Worst-Looking Place

I have a rule: if the diner looks like it hasn't been renovated since Eisenhower was president, the food is going to be incredible. Pulled into Jeb's Pit Stop somewhere between Flagstaff and Winslow - hand-painted sign, screen door that slams, a ceiling fan that wobbles like it's one rotation from giving up. Paradise.

Ordered the double smash burger with green chile and a side of onion rings that came out in a basket the size of my helmet. The patty had that crust you only get on a flat-top that's been seasoned by forty years of grease. The chile had actual heat, not that tourist-friendly warmth. I ate the whole thing standing next to the Road Glide because the only table was occupied by a guy who looked like he'd been sitting there since 1987.

The woman behind the counter asked where I was headed. I said I didn't know yet. She refilled my coffee without me asking and said "That's the right answer." I left a twenty on a nine-dollar check. Some things are worth more than the price on the menu.