Inotice Nate Bargatze ’s car before I notice him.

The burnt orange Porsche has just pulled up to the bustling Nashville restaurant where we’ve agreed to meet, and the valet is signaling for Bargatze to park out front. Once he’s made his way inside, he’ll tell me that his primo spot is a perk of driving a stick shift — what he won’t say, and what he’d hate having to read here, is that it’s also a perk of being the most successful touring comedian in the world.

As Bargatze, 46, has climbed to the top of that comedy food chain — slowly at first, then lightning fast — he’s wrestled with many things, none more so than: How does a guy who’s parlayed his everyman persona into a burgeoning empire remain an everyman? After all, an everyman doesn’t sell out arenas; he doesn’t star in movies; he

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