Cracker Barrel Confidential

At the Cracker Barrel in Kingman, Ariz., once you cross the front porch with rocking chairs, you step into the general store. You’ll weave through the Halloween, Fourth of July, or Christmas decor, around the shelves selling candy dots, chocolate-covered cherries, and Moon Pies, past the record display with artists from Led Zeppelin to Aretha Franklin, and past the calendars, stuffies, sundresses, and oversized cardigans, until you reach the hostess stand if you’re seeking a table—or the ladies’ room, if you’re me.

I’ve come to patronize the Cracker Barrel out of necessity. I live in Vegas and grew up in Flagstaff (about 250 miles southeast for those not familiar with the Southwest) so I often make the trek from the Mojave Desert to the San Francisco Peaks. Cracker Barrel wasn’t my original pit stop. I started with the In-N-Out, which is closer to the freeway but so dirty. The Kingman Regional Medical Center was my next spot. A bit unconventional, but hospitals are generally clean and there was ample parking. Then COVID happened and I couldn’t go in even if I wanted to.

I’d probably eaten a meal or two at Cracker Barrel before these trips began, but I can’t remember much. I know they serve fish on Fridays. My primary cultural touchstone was insider-like information from my sister, who told me the company’s old-timey aesthetic isn’t as hokey as it seems. It sources its decor through thrift pickers who hand-select items for each location. She pointed me to articles on it.

My sister could be a professional picker if she chose that over teaching. As a hobby, she scours estate sales and thrift stores for items that are endearing or valuable but underpriced. She’s got an eye and encyclopedic knowledge of makers with vintage appeal, including Blenko Glass, McCoy Pottery, and Kosta Boda. I texted her to see what she’s into now: “I guess still Mexican stuff.”

The eye for hidden value has become a family trait. My sister takes after our Aunt Gretchen, who lives in Rochester, Minn., a former nurse administrator whose real passion is beautiful and unique things. Before age slowed our elders down, and family lives grew more complex with kids, we would meet Aunt Gretchen and her sisters, including our mom, at Gold Rush, a vintage and antique festival in Oronoco. Think hockey arenas and county-fair-sized tents filled with hundreds of vendors—that’s Gold Rush. It’s small compared to other markets though, like the 127 Corridor Sale in Tennessee with 30,000 vendors. Today, internet auctions and platforms such as eBay and Etsy have redefined the hunt—now you can thrift 24/7 from home. But your laptop can’t sell you cheese curds or mini donuts. Ding!

The recent news about Cracker Barrel’s viability as a business assert that the restaurant’s appeal is rooted in a yearning for a bygone era of country stores and Southern comfort food—except our collective taste in cultural relics is evolving. Retro Taco Bell menu items and Pizza Hut designs are the nostalgic touchstones of younger generations.

But nostalgia isn’t what drives the picker subculture. The appeal isn’t rooted in memory or sentiment, but in the thrill of the hunt, and a love of curation, authenticity, and craftsmanship. Collectors chase obsessions; there’s always something fresh waiting to be discovered—if you know, you know. The other day I wandered down a rabbit hole of research on antique glass Cracker Jack animals produced in Czechoslovakia more than 100 years ago. Oh my god, I want them all.

To outsiders, vintage culture can appear quirky, even templated—full of typical, predictable retro kitsch: Coca-Cola paraphernalia, ruffled gingham curtains, glass apothecary jars. Those with experience know curation like that is for tourists, disguising a more complex emotional core. To be a picker isn’t to join any one culture but to move through many, curating as you go. In this, the big markets are great for education, and you might find bargains on the last day, when vendors would rather shed merchandise than pack it up. But the real deals are at estate and garage sales, or tiny shops in obscure towns, or buried online in plain sight. You must wander off the beaten path.

This sensibility lives in me when I step into the Cracker Barrel. Usually I’m in-and-out in three minutes or less. But on occasion, I’ll mill around with families who arrived in RVs and locals craving pancakes. It’s not a vintage shop—most of what’s for sale is new. Still, the picker mindset kicks in. I bought a pair of oversized pink sunglasses for $12 this spring—and got more compliments than on any sunnies I’ve ever owned. I told everyone they were from Cracker Barrel too, but people just nodded and moved on. I gave away my secret and kept it at once.