For the few weeks prior to the race, a cornucopia of independent vendors—most of whom served their fare from garishly painted and luridly lit trailers more suited to a carnival midway—corralled themselves inside chain link fences in various places around town, serving the type of food that was guaranteed to harden arteries upon contact. Apple pie, barbecue, cole slaw—and that was just for the first three letters in the alphabet—along with ice cream, beer, pie, and deep-fried whatever-the-hell-you-want. And, it went without saying, that ancient, arcane gastronomic mainstay of Kentucky festivals, burgoo, a chililike concoction into which went everything except chilis. Inevitably, a stage was set up somewhere amidst the culinary mayhem for local bands to perform, making for often decent music, and always lousy acoustics. Acoustics made even lousier thanks to the accompaniment of the lawnmower-like din of scores of generators fueling all the garishly painted and luridly lit trailers.In spite of that, the moment Nathaniel entered the Chow Wagon, he was transported back to his adolescence, when he and his friends would spend entire days here, wolfing down gyros and tiger ears and sno-cones, listening to Southern-fried rock and trying to buy beer with fake IDs that never fooled anyone.
