There are few things in life more supremely satisfying than that tiny little nirvana of a hamburger from White Castle, otherwise known as the Slyder, or the Bellybomber. If you did not grow up eating White Castles, you either have never heard of them, or find them repugnant. In either case, you are a philistine. But if you grew up with them, the chances are that at least a few times a year you wake up out of a deep sleep craving them like a junkie craves crack.

The White Castles people play a little trick on you, though, by only putting franchises in a precious few cities, so that in many cases (or at least my case), one will grow up with them and then have access terminated by moving away. Sure, many grocery stores now stock the microwaveable version of them, but it's just not the same--it's akin to the difference between a Lamborghini and a Hyundai.

I'm heading back to St. Louis in about a month for a visit, and already I can think of little else. I drool and sometimes quiver. I plan to eat nothing else for breakfast, lunch, and dinner (White Castles are 24 hours) for the first three days I'm there.