Written by Leilani Doneux
Is a biscuit by any other name as bitchin’? The truth is, probably, but there’s something about walking into a biscuit chain with plaid curtains and the warm smell of regrettable decisions that has the power to both humble and heal.
This is the effect that Tudor’s Biscuit World has from Morgantown to Bluefield, which is both up and down Appalachia, in a sustained effort to bring the warm feeling that you just can’t find anywhere else.
In case you thought this was a paid advertisement, it isn’t, but the kind of edible hospitality and fake cheese was so foreign to my California ethos, I barely even noticed that I wasn’t paying six dollars for the cappuccino I ordered.
To be frank and flaky, I have been mainlining biscuits since I moved to The South (patent pending since the War of Secession) with little to no guilt about it, but Appalachia was like the magic carpet ride of carbohydrates: never in my life have so many different iterations of biscuit been offered to me in such an immediate fashion. Bacon, eggs, and cheese may seem secondhand to anyone not on a juice cleanse, but when I sent the picture to my mom, even she was impressed.
With all due respect, The South and Appalachia do fluffy better than anything I have ever known, and I was tempted to camp out in the bathrooms of a rural West Virginia chain restaurant in both posterity and passion. The bizkit, as they say, was not limp.
