Nick's English Hut 423 E. Kirkwood Avenue Bloomington, Ind. 812-332-4040 Hours: Mon.-Sat. -- 11 a.m.-2 a.m.; Sun. -- Noon-Midnight

In what ranks as either a perk or an occupational drawback, sportswriters tend to eat an awful lot of meals in obscure places -- the front seat of their rental cars being just of one of them. Constricted by both time and money, you seldom end up at establishments that get stars from the Michelin Guide, that employ a chef tasked only with pastry preparation, or that have words like "emulsion" and "infusion" on the menu. You do, however, end up at a lot of obscure joints that ooze character and serve up the kind of regional food you dream about days later back home.

With that in mind, we're going to devote this bi-weekly Blog space to "Road Eats," off-the-eaten path clamshacks and barbecue pits and steakhouses and dim sum pavilions that we've had the good fortune of stumbling upon after the game. We'll start with a classic in my hometown.

Before there were blogs, there were the bathrooms stalls at places like Nick's English Hut. For more than 77 years, patrons of this venerable institution on the fringes of the Indiana University campus have taken sharp implements to the hardwood stalls and addressed topics du jour before and after (and maybe during) their soup du jour. The handiwork -- most of it occasioned by the "penknives" the majority of Hoosiers slip into their back pockets or under their belt buckles -- forms a sort of first draft of history. The topics range from sports (BOB KNIGHT FOR PRESIDENT) to politics (CARTER SUCKS) to philosophy (MY KARMA RAN OVER MY DOGMA). So it goes at Nick's, a thoroughly low-key, thoroughly pleasant watering hole that manages to be all things to all people, bridging any town-gown divide.

Though Indiana University touts itself as a dry campus, truth is, it's about as dry as winter in Seattle. While most of the undergrads sardine into the kind of quintessential college bars that have 25¢-beer-night and blast Mambo No. 5 without a trace of irony, Nicks gets some of the spillage. When the Hoosiers -- even during this winter of discontent -- are playing, Nick's takes on the guise of a sports bar, all 34 of its televisions tuned to the game. On most other nights, the noise level is sufficiently muted that Nick's is favorite haunt of professors. And thanks mostly to the familiar staff and the $2.25 pints, it even does a passable impersonation of a local dive bar, albeit one that can accommodate 500 people at once.

When Road Eats repaired to Nick's during a winter pilgrimage to Bloomington last month, the place was in full ecumenical form. A front table was commandeered by a knot of early-twentysomethings playing "Sink the Bismark," Nick's trademark drinking game that entails sinking a glass in a silver bucket filled with beer. (Don't ask.) Two professors in the banquette next to our left were solemnly discussing research papers they were preparing to present at an upcoming conference. The booth across the way was occupied by three chain-smoking middle-aged women who, having clearly taken copious advantage of the $1 well drink, nearly came to blows over which of their teenage sons is the greatest menace. "Oh yeah? You think that's bad? One teacher told the principal that if he flunked J.T. and put him back in her class for another year, she'd quit her job! She calls him J.D. -- juvenile delinquent!"

Any eating and drinking establishment, especially in the Midwest, that voluntarily calls itself an "English Pub" doesn't create high culinary expectations. But, ultimately, it's Nick's kitchen that makes it more than just another endearing bar on the main drag of a college town. Yes, you can get your fill of oleaginous wings and cheese sticks; but most of the food on the menu originates in a place other than the deep fryer. Nick's cook, Gregg "Rags" Rago, something of a cult celebrity in Bloomington, has been working the kitchen for 27 years. Rags' specialties are a flavorful gumbo and a jambalaya heaped generously with chicken, andouille and shrimp, and. Both compare favorably to anything you'll get in New Orleans. And if neither is on the menu that day, ask for it anyway and odds are good Rags will hook you up. Nick's is that kind of place. Otherwise the third-pound burgers are the best in town after Hinkle's. And provided you're not on a quest for amorous adventures later that night, the strombolis -- basically pizza sandwiches -- are worth the subsequent halitosis and dry-cleaning bills.

For all the ambient testosterone -- the oak and pine and beer and meat -- Nick's is also home to winning salads. A card-carrying member of the "Slow Food Movement," Rags gets all his greens from a nearby organic farm. ("I'm all about supporting small local farmers," he says.) He often experiments with toppings like grilled duck and barbecued sirloin.

Unlike most restaurants in town (at least the ones not named Denny's or illuminated by a large neon Bell marquee), Nick's kitchen is open late. And Road Eats still gets a sort of inverse sticker shock from the prices. Put it this way: If you and a friend eat and drink and have managed to spend more than $30, please don't drive or operate heavy machinery.

Even setting aside those warm hometown feelings -- home cooking as it were -- Nick's pretty much conforms to our ideal for Road Eats. Good food. Good prices. Good people. At least until that reprobate J.T. is old enough to walk through the door.

Sports Illustrated senior writer Jon Wertheim covers tennis for the magazine and is a regular contributor to SI.com.