Whitt's Inn, on US 31 at Tracy Road in Whiteland (or is it New Whiteland? I can never remember where the one town ends and the other begins) is an unassuming little free-standing place at the edge of a strip-mall parking lot, so there is never a problem parking there even when they have one of those organized-group motorcycle rides in the summer. The decor is your basic formless carpet/K-Mart Cafe chairs and tables that most bars have, but the place does have a kind of homey feel to it. The staff is always friendly and the other patrons usually are, too. On our last visit, however, there was a regular in there whose conversation had more F bombs in it than a freakin' episode of the Sopranos! And of course he was the loudest sumbitch in there, so we all had to hear it. Now, I was previously of the opinion that cussing was one of the freedoms that made a bar so relaxing, just like smoking and no-women-allowed used to be, but this guy made ME feel uncomfortable. He wasn't angry or offensive, really, he just used "F-ing" like we would use any other adjective, only moreso. The cook even joined in the mood the guy had created when she put an order up in the window and told the bartender to "TELL (F-bomb guy) TO PICK UP HIS F*CKING SH*T!", which got a big laugh, so I imagine his vernacular had been the subject of some discussion in the bar on previous occasions.
Anyway, I had an order of french fries that was pretty good, the beer and drink prices were decent, and they had Amber Bock on draft, which made me happy. The only real drawback to the whole experience, aside from the aforementioned purveyor of profanity, was that the bar felt kind of gritty, like it hadn't been hit with a rag intentionally in a while, so I may have been taking my life in my hands with those french fries, but I did look in and see that the kitchen appeared to be clean, so maybe that particular bartender just needed to PICK UP HER F*CKING SH*T! I always seem to have a good time there, so we'll be back.
