GAINESVILLE, Texas – Camera? Check. Directions? Check. Antacids? Check.

I'm setting out on a quest that will take me across state lines into what many Texans consider enemy territory: the land of the Sooners. Claims to supremacy have been made on both sides of the Red River, but this rivalry isn't about football. This contest involves boiling oil. I'm searching for the ultimate fried pie.

I'm impartial, having lived in both states. And I have a thoroughly cleansed palate, having not eaten a fried pie in about 30 years.

My previous fried-pie experiences took place in fast-food joints, where greasy, sugar-coated triangles sat under heat lamps until ordered. The doughy interior usually contained a few shards of unrecognizable fruit in a slimy sauce.

So my expectations are not particularly high as I head north on Interstate 35.

First stop is the courthouse square in Gainesville, one of those restored downtown areas with bricked streets, historic buildings, galleries and interesting shops.

Fried Pie Co. & Restaurant occupies a building erected in 1890 as a service station, which later became an auto dealership. Now, the old car showroom, with its large windows, is a dining area that offers a nice view of the old, domed courthouse on the opposite corner.

The place has a funky, eclectic decor, with worn wooden tables, bookshelves and an incongruously large chandelier. Tin ceilings amplify the good-natured clamor. Locals gather here to swap stories, catch up on courthouse doings and eat fried pies.

Owner Jo Clark says she learned the art of fried-pie making from her grandmother and later began making them for friends. Finally someone suggested she start selling her specialty to convenience stores and restaurants.

"So that's what I did," she recalls. "Then it just got out of hand. I couldn't do enough of them at home, so I had to find a building."

That was 26 years ago. Now the only place to find Clark's famous fried pies is here.

The menu offers a variety of breakfast and lunch dishes, as well as a dozen flavors of fruit and cream fried pies. Clark says her biggest seller, by about 3-to-1, is apricot. But if she were to name an undiscovered gem, it would be pineapple. At one time, she tried to take pineapple fried pies off the menu, but it created such an uproar among a small group of die-hard fans that she brought them back.

Customer demand is also why the restaurant recently added three sugar-free varieties to the fried-pie lineup. I order the sugar-free cherry, which arrives warm, on a small, oval plate. It's a little work of art in golden-brown crust, with a decorative edge that resembles twisted rope. The filling that pours forth when I cut into it is full of cherries and pleasingly tart.

The coconut fried pie is dusted with powdered sugar. The crust is delicate and flaky, and the filling has more shredded coconut than you'll find in a conventional piece of coconut pie.

This is definitely a cut above fast food and, not surprisingly, the process isn't fast. Pies are hand-rolled, one at a time, before they're lowered into the deep fryer. The restaurant's homemade approach applies to the fillings as well. Apricot, apple and peach fillings are made from scratch.

After my tour of Clark's bustling but tidy kitchen, I'm back on the road, headed to Davis, Okla., where tourists flock to Turner Falls, Arbuckle Wilderness and the Fried Pie Shoppe.

Like the cafe in Gainesville, this restaurant has a nostalgic appeal, but it evokes a different era. The rustic rock building with Sinclair gas pumps out front is reminiscent of Route 66 in its heyday. Nearby, a '50s-style motel and RV park complete the picture.

Inside, customers queue up to order and watch as pies are hand-prepared and deep-fried in an open kitchen. The pies are delivered in paper wrappers; utensils are considered bad form. The lineup includes tempting flavors such as blackberry, lemon and pecan, but I'm eager to try their famous meat pies.

My order comes with a caution that the pies are hot, and steam rises when I bite into the Tex-Mex. The near-molten mixture of beef, refried beans and cheddar, laced with chunks of jalapeño, makes me glad I grabbed a handful of napkins. I lose myself in the moment. Right now, I don't care how many calories this thing has. It's that good.

Next is the chicken and vegetable pie. The light, crisp crust encases big chunks of lean chicken in a cream sauce with carrots, potatoes, peas, celery and onion, all liberally sprinkled with coarse-ground pepper.

Even though I've had plenty to eat, I order an apricot fried pie, strictly in the interests of journalistic due diligence. The buttermilk pastry has pretty, fluted edges, and inside are big, tangy chunks of fruit. I realize that part of the reason fried pies taste so good is that there's no soggy bottom crust, as there is with conventional pies.

Owner Nancy Fulton, who says she started out with a rolling pin and a Fry Daddy, has built a high-volume business, shipping her dry dough mix and fillings to other fried-pie outlets in the region. In fact, the newest addition to the Fried Pie Shoppe family just opened in Bridgeport.

She continues to use the tried-and-true method of hand-making each fried pie. "I tried all types of automation, and that doesn't work," she says.

As with Clark in Gainesville, the fried-pie tradition in Fulton's family came from her grandmother, who worked on a ranch in the late 1800s and cooked up pies for the cowboys.

"They carried them out in syrup buckets and worked cattle and shot rattlesnakes," she says.

It would take a more discerning palate than mine to choose a winner between the fried pies in Gainesville and the ones in Davis. You can't go wrong with apricot at either place. Both restaurants sell handmade pies, and both make great crusts. So can't we all just get along?

The fried-pie business seems to be recession-proof, observes Beaux Fulton, Nancy's husband. "We just had our largest February ever," he says.

After a day of sampling gourmet fried pies in two states, I think I know the reason. When you're eating a great fried pie, you're fully engaged. For a few minutes, cares evaporate and life is good. You just can't get that eating a salad.