Panegyric L'Waffle House

Waffle House is, at the exact same time, an unabashed and guilty pleasure of mine. It's a difficult paradox to explain, but I will try my best (especially for Northeast and West Coast readers).

Three hours past Washington, D.C., I pull over in Christiansburg, Virginia, for breakfast at Waffle House. It's already after 2 P.M., but Waffle House is (shrewdly) breakfast anytime. I'm not sure if I've ever seen anyone order a non-breakfast meal, but if Waffle House were a place where there were such things as taboos, I believe that would be one of them.

I stop in Christiansburg because I am a smartass, but my smug little rebellion halts when the exit sign notes that x-burg is the town adjacent to Blacksburg and home of Virginia Tech. Now it's just eerie to be here, but I suppose even a trust fund reporter (especially with the initials AC) must be an opportunist too.

I amble into the Waffle House, which is mostly empty at this time of day and before I've seated myself, the waitress already asks if I know what I'd like to drink (and also calls me hun, tee hee). I request orange juice and Verna asks small or large. Usually in Manhattan, this shift in size is the difference between three dollar and four dollar orange juice, but I'm pleased to say large and have it mean $1.79 over $1.39 at Waffle House where it arrives seconds later in a large plastic Sysco cup with a few ice cubes added for good measure.

I order scrambled eggs with hashbrowns "covered and smothered" which is code for mixed with cheese and onions (and awesome). Any Waffle House regular knows that you can get hashbrowns covered and smothered as well as chunked, diced, peppered, capped, topped, and all the way, which respectively represent ham, tomatoes, jalapenos, mushrooms, chili, and angioplasty.

The charm of a Waffle House is not in its kitsch, it's the exact opposite because every bit of it is meant. The sticker sign on the door reads Thanks for coming by, see you again tomorrow and it's meant and probably adhered to. It's genuine and it's real and the people who eat there are the people I never meet in life, who drink at American Legions and vote red. Waffle House is Mecca for fannypacks and folksy English.

I excuse myself to wash my hands and leave my backpack at the table. When I return, the waitresses are explaining to the cook, who stands beside a griddle with an ungodly amount of baked waffle runoff around it, that they have known each other for seventeen years now, I would assume all while working at the Christiansburg Waffle House.

The food comes quickly and I'm never disappointed, I finish quickly, leave $10 on a $6 tab, and drive to gas station in the adjacent parking lot. I fill up my car with 93 Octane Supreme gasoline for under $2.90 a gallon for the first time in probably over a year while a dog inside the RV beside my car barks at me without ceasing. It's 103 degrees according to the car thermometer and there is a special inside the gas station, two cans of Skoal dip for $6.99.

Thanks for coming by, see you again tomorrow.

The next day I leave Birmingham by 10:30 A.M. and hit Tuscaloosa by about 1:00 P.M. I pull off the road and amble back into Waffle House. This time it's packed from the post-church Sunday crowd. I sit at the counter because the tables are all full of families and there is a wait. I sit on the stool next to Tom in a ten-gallon Stetson, who ordered two plates of bacon and a waffle. In fascination, I watch him fold the waffle over his bacon pile and make a sandwich. And yes, he added syrup.

It's crowded and the waitress is bouncing around the section. Tom flags down the manager as he walks in front of us and the manager asks if he can help with anything. Tom says he's trying to get his check. The manager asks who his waitress is and Tom says the colored one. Without pause, the manager makes his way over to her and tells her to deliver the check.

I'm in Tuscaloosa and it's 2007, Tom is beside me in a ten-gallon Stetson and he describes the waitress as colored. But he says it like she's wearing a sweater; he is not degrading and his tone is neutral. The whole staff has the exact same uniform down the black Waffle House visor. But she's colored. And that is Waffle House. I spy on Tom leaving $10 on a $7 and he goes. After my second baleful dose of smothered and covered in as many days, Shirley says have a good day baby and I jump back on the road and ride on to Mississippi.