Meet me at the Waffle House
Breakfast is one of my three favorite meals, and why not, I am breaking a long fast; admittedly I am asleep and my time away from food shouldn’t count as a fasting, but to be fair, I’m not eating. Breakfast has been a staple in my life from my earliest memories; my mom would find a way to throw together a spread each morning; eggs, bacon, homemade biscuits, and gravy, and, oh yes, I forgot, country ham on Saturdays. She was following a well-established precedent passed down from her family of hard-working folks who more often than not, had a long day ahead of them; eating a hearty morning meal was required if you were to get through the day.
If I am honest, I have done my very best to maintain that rich tradition; I know science says a country breakfast is bad for you, but damn so is being undernourished. I am willing to take the risk that a joyful breakfast might shorten my life; what’s an extra week or two when you’re nearing the end? It reminds me of the seventy-five-year-old patient who proudly told his internist at his annual physical, “doc, I have given up, beer, bourbon, wine, cigars, staying out late to play poker, bacon, sausage, hot dogs, and my chewing tobacco.” Stunned by his patient’s admission, the doctor said the only thing he could think of, “okay, but what exactly is the point of living?”
Unlike my mom, who was pained to believe breakfast could be found outside her kitchen, I am not shy about going out to a diner for breakfast; and there have been some great ones I have experienced; when I lived in downtown Knoxville, I frequented Pete’s at least three times a week; it was how I started my day. Alas, I don’t live there anymore, and I do travel a bit, so I am always seeking a great breakfast spot, not just for the food, but for the experience.
Having moved on from Pete’s I am now a regular at the Waffle House, and I love it. I admit the eggs are the smallest eggs I have ever seen, the napkins are so insignificant as to offer little help in wiping my face, the bacon is often overcooked, and you never quite know how each order will taste; and yet it is wonderful. One more thing, no matter how many times I order my standard, my bill is never the same amount; there must be some secret process my waitress follows for cogitating my request to give me the best price, whatever the cause it is an adventure to figure out how much I will owe. Thankfully, it is so cheap, I never worry too much about what it costs.
Regardless of the location of the Waffle House, they all look the same; exactly the same, and isn’t that great? No need to figure out a different layout or how things work, when I walk in the door, regardless of where I am, I have been here before, and I know what I am doing.
My local Waffle House does possess a special quality that I have observed having spent a few days a week there; it’s the people. Cassandra is always smiling, I don’t know why, and it doesn’t matter, she walks up to your table and grins like we went to high school together and she hasn’t seen you in forever. She also is responsible for the juke box against the wall; I like her selections; it is a mix of 90’s and today’s hip hop. I don’t think the customers typically listen to her music choices driving around town in their trucks, but they don’t seem to mind her jam when she puts a dollar in the box.
I can always count on Jimmy and Pops sitting at the end of the tabletop, chatting loudly about politics, the weather, or what is happening with the local high school team. They don’t care for the Kamala Harris crowd, but don’t seem to be bothered if someone jabs them about Trump; they’re just good old boys, using their bread to soak up the yoke from their over easy eggs; can’t take things too seriously.
Natalia is one of my favorite waitresses, she is likely no more than 21 years old; a recent immigrant from the Ukraine who followed her parents to the US. Her English is broken, and she doesn’t always get the customer’s accents, but she never messes up an order. I get the sense she finds the scene fascinating; and why wouldn’t she, she experiences a little slice of americana every morning while building her own path towards the American dream.
I must admit I have no idea how my order arrives correctly, listening to the waitress belt out what I requested, it sounds unrecognizable, and to make it worse, the cook doesn’t appear to be listening; she is too busy making breakfast for fifteen people to be interested in another order. And yet, they almost always get it right; okay most days it comes out in stages, not at the same time, and the bacon ordered medium is going to be crisp. But I never complain, this isn’t a place to complain, this is a place with normal people serving normal people. If overdone bacon is the worst thing that happens, it has been a damn good day.
My favorite day at the Waffle House is Saturday. I don’t know why but I feel more relaxed, and most people in the building seem to share that sentiment. There is more laughter, bantering about, and the music never stops. I also occasionally, when my wife isn’t with me, sneak an order of country ham; you should always honor your mom, and least that is what I think.
The Waffle House has stood the test of time; when I was a young man, it was a go to place in the middle of the night after too much frivolity and alcohol, now it is a comforting place where I get to fulfill a family tradition among people that look and act like my family.
We never know how long we are going to live, there are no promises, and we should never take anything for granted. That’s why, no matter where I travel in the South, I look to see if the Waffle House is nearby; I do this because I would like to think when I die, it will have been less than a week since I ordered three eggs over medium, medium bacon, toast, hashbrowns, and two sausage patties at the Waffle House.
