I had been wrong; Mr. Duncan Hines had been there before me, as his discreetly beckoning little tin sign now reassured me. Thunder Bay had at last made the grade; one could now dine in the certified knowledge that Duncan approved. I could visualize this ubiquitous little man — his bib full of gravy stains, his pockets full of pills, his soul full of hope –gnawing his way across a continent, leaving diplomas in his wake like a sort of gastronomic Kilroy. I sighed and moved into the hotel. “Peptic ulcers can now be gaily faced,” I thought. Duncan has et here. – Robert Travers, Anatomy of a Murder, 1958