It used to be called a truck stop, on I-5 where you exit to get to Lodi. It's close to Sacramento and Stockton, but for long-haul truckers who eat there, nothing is close to anything. The food is good and there is a lot of it. The waitresses are friendly and, on weekends, families from around the area come and eat there. It is a place where heartburn and nostalgia are served with equal generosity, a place where one could remember back when summer vacation meant station wagons and motels, not theme parks, security screening and bags of peanuts.

There is something special about chicken fried steak and eggs at a truck stop. It is a meal no trendy diet can embrace. It is a meal you can eat only after your monthly cholesterol check. So one morning last week, when things were quiet at the Capitol and a quick peek at the newswires and a listen to the drums promised an uneventful day, Publius decided to return to his triglyceride-laden youth and take a short trip south down the interstate.

As the Capitol disappeared in my rear-view mirror, I hoped that I would not be absent if a spur-of-the-moment, well-choreographed, professionally messaged, spontaneous expression of outrage from injured workers, doctors or applicants' attorneys suddenly commanded my presence.

I hesitated a second but then realized that highly paid professional media consultants who made certain that employers and insurers had the right comments in case such an event took place would call me. After all, they all have my cell phone number.

As I turned into the expansive parking lot, I expected to see the usual weekday morning combination of big rigs, RVs and a few people moving their worldly possessions in U-Hauls.

What I saw, however, was quite a shock. Lined up along the row of long parking spaces usually reserved for big trucks was a row of expensive sedans: Mercedes, BMW, an Audi or two in between, even a Bentley. Each had a small trailer attached to the rear. It was an odd spectacle really, which of course piqued my journalistic interests. Looking quickly around, I walked over to the high-priced convoy and tried to get a sense of what was going on. I was immediately struck by the license plates numbers.

"COMPDOC" was the first one. The second, "PD4U2," made me curious. One said "IH8ACOM" and another said "899SCKS". Then there was "OMFSPRO". Too bad I forgot my camera. It would have been almost as good a front-page picture as the one of the Shred-It truck shredding papers outside the back door while the Department was coming in the front door to take over Superior Cal/Comp.

But my chicken fried steak was calling. I walked into the restaurant, passed the "Truckers Only" section, and waited for the hostess to seat me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a long table with a number of men in business suits having breakfast. Given the number of plates stacked up on the corner of the table, it was obvious they were having the buffet.

I was seated by the older, cheery hostess who poured me a cup of strong black coffee before I could even sit down. She was gone in an instant. No more than a minute later, a younger, perkier waitress stopped by, pen and pad in hand.

"So, what's with the suits?" I asked, looking in the direction of the crowded table.

"Not sure, they've been here a couple of hours looking at maps. What'll it be, hon?"

Curiosity notwithstanding, I was there on a mission. Without cracking open the menu, I said, "Chicken fried steak and eggs."

"Hash browns or fruit?"

I was startled. I knew I had to make a quick decision, but I never thought anyone would offer fruit with a chicken fried steak. It was so- healthy. Oh wait, this is California.

"Hash browns."

"Toast or biscuits?"

"Biscuits. Hold the gravy." My one concession to good eating. Plus the fact that I like butter and jam on my biscuits.

I strained to overhear what the group was talking about, to no avail. Soon the waitress came back with my order and I was absorbed in a meal fit for, well, maybe a truck driver or someone who would be eating smoothies, granola bars and baked salmon for the next 30 years, but certainly not me. I looked for extra butter for my biscuit.

I was about two-thirds of the way through my breakfast when one of the suits came over. He asked politely if he could sit down. Since my mouth was full, I waved my hand for him to sit.

"You know, this isn't good for you."

"Excuse me?" I was somewhat taken aback by having a stranger lecture me about dietary considerations at a truck stop.

"I apologize," he said. "I'm a doctor."

"Pardon me for saying this, but there isn't much on this menu that you and your friends over there have been devouring since I've been here that will get you into the nutrition hall of fame."

He looked down for a moment.

"Well, this is a bad day for all of us. Actually, it's been a bad couple of years."

I apologized for appearing insensitive. I asked him to continue.

"I ran an outpatient surgery center. Tom, the one on the far right, and Cheryl in the middle there, the one with the Belgian waffle, they're both chiropractors. Bill and Fred are PTs - that's physical therapists."

"And the other one?"

"Pain management," he glumly replied.

"Ouch," I said.

"Not funny."

Rather than correct myself, I asked what they were doing there.

"Moving," he said.

"Moving where?"

"Well, Tom is going to Utah. Cheryl and Bill are going to Arizona. Fred has a job at a fitness club in Torrance."

"And you?"

"I'm not sure yet. Heading to Bakersfield to see if I can hook up with an MPN."

There was an awkward silence.

"Things that bad?" I asked.

"Worse. Seems like everybody blamed us for everything. Democrats and Republicans alike. Now look. We're like nomads." He stared blankly out the window.

"I would have thought the lawyers would have protected you."

With that comment, he stood and looked at me.

"Yeah, right." He left for his table.

My waitress came by and dropped off the check.

"Anything else, hon?"

"No," I said with a smile. "Everything was just perfect."