It was hard to say goodbye to Mom’s. The smell of baking pies, and the chatter of workers patting down dough, scraping out apple mix and counting tins gave the place a warmth, as though it were a winter day and the old fireplace was lit.

I will sit on the wooden bench inside Mom’s again. It was even tempting to go back in and get a slice of crumble when we went the wrong way and had to double back 10 miles, through town, to catch the connection that would take us east and into the desert. It’s a spectacular drive, a combination of straight-away and curvy road running through landscape that is brutally bleak and breathtakingly beautiful.

Had we done it, they would have simply assumed we were automotive journalists. This place, after all, offers what we scribes love most of all: food, lots of it, and a pleasing variety of roads. Sure enough, as we left town, there – on the side of the road – sat a journalist in a pastel Lamborghini Gallardo Spyder, wearing the disgusted look of a man awaiting a tow truck. I patted the wheel of my Chevy. There were no tows in this beast’s future, only tight and twisty roads, on which the Tahoe stuck well, though our optional 20-inch tires did complain when the driving grew more aggressive. Big deal -- for a 5,265-lb. vehicle, the SUV was surprisingly nailed down and responsive. If only the brakes were also nailed down. Pedal feel was soft, with too much play; with the rest of the nuts and bolts of this car so dialed in, the brake feel was a mild disappointment.