Today, Munch, your trusty culinary expedition guide, is leading you on a trip into the exotic deep of the Pittsburgh suburbs. So pack some provisions into your Chevy Tahoe and go north, young man, on Route 8 (Slightly More Scenic Than Saw Mill Run Boulevard, I believe, is the motto), out of the city. Past Mr. C's Pizzeria, past Casey's Family Restaurant. Past Spadafora's bar and grill. Past Jay's Other Place.

Is Munch reciting this list of bypassed restaurants in hopes that each one will send us a $50 gift certificate, encouraging our return? And perhaps a case of Scotch? Yes, obviously. But it's also to illustrate that, just when you think you've driven a bit too far, that's when The Lodge will appear on your left.

The Lodge is located at 4815 William Flynn Highway (Route 8), Hampton. Call 412-492-1606.

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A bit ambiguous, that name. What kind of lodge are we talking about here? Ski lodge? Fraternal Order of Eagles lodge? Masonic? KKK? No, none of these. It's meant to resemble a hunting lodge -- exposed timber meets ruddy table furnishings meets fishing pole hanging from the wall meets a black-and-white photo of some guy surrounded by two dozen freshly killed rabbits. It's a really old pic of the former police chief of McKees Rocks or the former mayor of McKeesport, or something. Dang, Munch should have written it down.

Whoever he was, he went all Elmer Fudd on some bunnies one afternoon, and somebody took a picture, and now it's on the wall at The Lodge. If you want any level of detail beyond that, you're gonna have to ask Tom. He was the friendly guy wearing the Mickey Mouse polo shirt last weekend, part restaurant historian, part greeter, part table-clearer, part guy who recommends what you should eat that evening. He suggested the barbecue ribs (half-rack, $12.95) and the filet mignon ($25.95 for 8 ounces).

Munch, ever the adventurer and rarely one to take advice, no matter how practical, chose the path less traveled, a burger topped with blue cheese and caramelized onions, all of it sitting on a portobello mushroom ($8.95, plus fries and slaw).

Mmmm, that's some good slaw. What's in it? Tom rushed to the kitchen to ask. The answer -- we can't tell you, he said. It's a secret. C'mon, Tom, it's not like we're going to rush out and open a restaurant of our own and steal The Lodge's slaw recipe. Though "Munch's House of Slaw" does have a nice ring. (And we're pretty sure the secret ingredient was cider vinegar.)

OK, enough about the slaw. Munch surely has tasted better burgers, but few bigger. Are you one of those rare talents who can stick your entire fist in your mouth? No? Then good luck getting your gums around this cheeseburger, sister.

Dear One of Munch (DOOM), Clark to Munch's Lewis for this excursion (or is it the Harold to my Kumar?), sampled the barbecue chicken sandwich ($7.95), dressed lightly in the kitchen's sweet house-made sauce. DOOM wavered between "moist" and "juicy" in trying to describe the experience. "Juicy," DOOM said at first. "No, moist." "Wait! Changed my mind. It's juicy."

Not so easy, is it? Trying to come up with words to explain a chicken sandwich? Maybe now you'll realize there's more to being Munch than taking an extended lunch once a week.

I mean, yeah, that's the bulk of it. But there's some other stuff. Not losing the receipt, for example. And remembering what exactly it was that we ate.

Oh, speaking of that, Munch tried the soup ($2.95), a bisque-y, smoky, bean and bacon number.

So that's that, food-wise. Munch wandered around for a spell, out of the homey dining room and into the blue-lighted bar area (the new owners knocked down a wall separating the two rooms), and was about ready to skedaddle when ...

Wait, what's this? A two-man band is playing after dinner? Stick around, says Tom, they're really good. Don't mind if I do, says Munch. Soon enough, Munch was overcome by that peaceful, easy feeling, the kind that only a full stomach, a bottle of cold beer and a couple of Eagles covers can give birth to.