Tuesday (Day 3) The chatter of more than 60 white-haired women fills the room, drowning out the Muzak playing softly in the background. Waitresses in baby blue smocks rush by cradling armloads of fried chicken. The lady to Todd's right introduces herself as Anna Schneider. "We're the Lilly Lunch Bunch," she says, explaining that she and her friends are retirees from the Eli Lilly pharmaceuticals company, based nearby. "We've been having lunch here together for years."

We're on the north side of Indianapolis, at Hollyhock Hill, a family-style chicken dinner restaurant that has been around for 80 years. The dining room is under the direction of Jay Snyder, a kindly, middle-aged gentleman. "The original dining room used to be a summer cottage," says Snyder. "I started here, cleaning up the yard, when I was 16." The kitchen's windows have flowery curtains, and the countertops are pink Formica. Tom Sheron, a goateed man in his 30s, has been frying the chicken here for 15 years. James declares it some of the best he's had; he asks what the secret is. "Lard," says Sheron. "That's the only way to fry chicken." The dinner comes with a relish tray, mashed potatoes with cream gravy, biscuits, cottage cheese, pickled beets, apple butter, green beans, and corn. "When this place started it was on a dirt road; it was way out in the country," says Snyder.

After lunch, Todd announces that he needs a haircut. Jay Snyder directs us to a friend of his who has a barbershop down the road. Todd asks the barber whether she's heard of the Nashville House in Nashville, Indiana, our next, and much anticipated, stop. The owners had mailed us their menu before we left, and, to our great pleasure, it was handwritten. We've been looking forward to its Hoosier ham and sassafras tea. "It's so nice there," the barber tells Todd. "You're going to love it."

The restaurant proves easy to spot: it's a faux log cabin sitting at a busy intersection; it's flanked by a Carmel Corn Cottage and a Colonial Craft Shop, and it looks about as authentic as a Cracker Barrel. Looks can be deceiving, but we decide not to go in. That night we stay at an Econo Lodge next to another Wal-Mart.

Wednesday (Day 4) Todd is wearing thin white cotton gloves and carrying a tray of old, empty Duncan Hines cake mix boxes. We're at the library and museum of Western Kentucky University in Bowling Green. Duncan Hines was born and raised in this town, and we felt compelled to pay a visit. The university is in the midst of installing a permanent exhibit dedicated to Hines's life and times called "Recommended by Duncan Hines", which will feature a life-size mannequin of the man and his actual home test kitchen. We're sifting through the boxes of ephemera—matchbooks, postcards, ice cream containers, advertisements—that are to be displayed. With us is Cora JaneSpiller, Duncan Hines's great-niece, who is now 80 years old.

Spiller takes us out to dinner along with a few other Duncan Hines experts and enthusiasts. She tells us she is wearing a dress that once belonged to Clara Hines, Duncan's wife. "If they can't be here to drink and toast with us," Spiller says, referring to Duncan and Clara, "they can be here in clothing." As Bowling Green no longer harbors a restaurant that was officially recommended by "Uncle Duncan", we dine instead at the Smokey Pig Bar-B-Q, where we sample sweet and smoky thin-cut pork shoulder and wash it down with Nehi orange soda. Later, Spiller takes us to Duncan Hines's former home, now a funeral parlor.

Thursday (Day 5) We're rolling across central Kentucky now. We drive down U.S. Highway 127 to State Highway 78 and then over to State Highway 52, on our way to the town of Berea, home to Boone Tavern. Situated on the campus of Berea College (a tuition-free Christian school), the 99-year-old tavern and hotel earned some degree of national fame under the management of Richard T. Hougen, who managed the establishment from 1940 to 1976. During his tenure, he perfected such dishes as Pork Chops the Tricky Way, Chicken Flakes in a Bird's Nest, Kentucky Chess Pie, and Yeasty Dinner Rolls. The cavernous kitchen is bright and airy and straight out of the 1940s. As with every place we've visited so far, many of the employees have been here for a long time. Two of them, Bruce Alcorn and Rawleigh Johnson, have worked in the kitchen for more than 30 years. "I'm just part of the fixtures," says Alcorn. Alcorn and Johnson remember that back when U.S. 25 was the main thoroughfare—before the nearby interstate was put through—they served 200 to 300 people a day. "Now it's tweaked down," says Alcorn. "I've seen a lot of changes, competition coming in." One thing that hasn't changed is the spoonbread, a creamy corn bread soufflé served before every meal. It appears to be the most popular item served. "People say that the spoonbread isn't the same as it was way back when," says Alcorn. "But me and Rawleigh made it back then; nothing's changed." We got here just in time; the tavern and hotel are scheduled to undergo an extensive renovation in a couple of months.

Friday (Day 6) We've exited the street into pitch darkness. Once our eyes adjust to the dim light, we are able to make out an elegantly appointed wood-paneled room. The center of the room is occupied by a huge, rectangular bar. This is the Pine Club in Dayton, Ohio, a cool, windowless supper club. Dan Nooe, the general manager, greets us. "Sorry that we're not that busy," he says. Every booth is full. "Unless we're double around the bar, we're not busy." The tables are loaded with classic steak house food: plump strip steaks and rib eyes, sweet-and-sour stewed tomatoes with a topping of buttered croutons, herring slathered in sour cream, creamed spinach, and shredded iceberg lettuce topped with thick blue cheese dressing.

Following our dinner of calf's liver with sautéed onions and chopped steak, we decide to stay at a bed-and-breakfast not far from downtown Dayton. The rooms are stuffed with every doodad imaginable. Inside Todd's, there's a Howdy Doody doll in a baby carriage. Interminable layers of lace curtains keep the outside world out. A floor-to-ceiling stuffed rabbit guards James's room, at the end of the hall.

Saturday (Day 7) We didn't sleep well at the B&B. We spend the morning and early afternoon driving in silence through Ohio. Several hours later we are sitting at the bar of Figaretti's, a spaghetti house in the West Virginia town of Wheeling. "We have a lot of loyal customers," says the bartender, Jorge Shavedra. "People who have been following Figaretti's for 50 years—they come from all over." Tony Figaretti Sr., the owner, who also happens to be the boxing commissioner of West Virginia, is greeting customers at the door; he's clad in loafers and wearing a loose gold bracelet. "Hey you! How ya doing?" he bellows to a smartly dressed man coming through the door. "This guy always shows me up. His shirt. His shoes."

Five brothers started Figaretti's back in 1948. It used to be called Figaretti's Cricket Club. We sit below a gilded, framed portrait of Mr. and Mrs. Figaretti. Todd has a manhattan and nibbles on some garlic bread. Then we dig into the Godfather II, a delicious dish of linguine tossed with shrimp, mussels, peppers, onions, and tomatoes in a white wine and garlic sauce, sprinkled with grated parmesan cheese.

We decide to drive several miles south, to Moundsville. Halfway into town, in front of an abandoned bowling alley beneath a darkening early-evening sky, we spot the Reilley's Arms Motel. We pull over and check in to our rooms. We seem to be the only guests. James settles down in front of a Charlton Heston movie. Todd pops a quarter into the coin slot affixed to his bed's headboard, but the magic fingers don't work. He falls asleep anyway.

Sunday (Day 8) Homeward bound. Running behind schedule, and feeling the weight of the coming workweek, we resign ourselves to Interstate 80. We speed eastward, stopping for dinner at an overly air-conditioned Denny's somewhere in Pennsylvania. We get stuck in traffic as we approach the George Washington Bridge, giving ourselves plenty of time to peer across the Hudson River at the lights of New York City, the end of the road.