Baton Rouge. Waffle House. Supper time. I see him in the corner. He’s middle-aged. A little silver in his hair. He’s sitting with his son who is maybe 5. His son plays on an iPad quietly.
The man is guzzling coffee by the metric ton. He looks nervous. He’s wearing normal clothes. Levi’s. Tucked-in shirt. Square-toe boots. The uniform of the rural man.
George Strait is singing overhead. A few road-weary truckers sitting at the bar are about to fall face-first into their grits.
Then she walks in.
Everyone sees her. She is the same age as Mister Levi’s. She is brunette. She is wearing a work uniform. She evidently works at Walmart, or the DG, or some other store where you can buy romaine lettuce and 10-W 30 motor oil in the same establishment.
He stands when he sees her enter. He is definitely nervous. You can tell by the way he’s rocking on his feet. He nudges his boy.
The boy puts down the iPad and stands.
They both greet the woman like proper gentlemen. Long live Chivalry.
I get the feeling that if these weren’t Waffle House booths, the man would pull out the chair for this woman.
They shake hands.
So cordial. Strangers, apparently. The man introduces her to his son. And that’s when I notice the baby carrier beside him in the booth. I couldn’t see it before. But I see it now. There is a kid in the carrier.
The man introduces her to both kids. It’s an awkward introduction. But sweet. The woman sits across from the man and his two kids.
They are definitely strangers, I’m thinking. Otherwise she would be sitting with one of the kids. Instead, the man is squeezed into the booth with a son and a baby carrier. She sits all by herself.
She orders orange juice.
He orders chocolate milk for his boy.
I am watching their mannerisms. I am not the smartest spoon in the drawer, but I know when two people are on a date. These people are on a date. A first date, I’d guess. At Waffle House.
I have been writing this column for a decade now. I have written a gajillion columns on Waffle House. I have a soft spot for America’s abode of waffles. This is a gift from the column gods.
I overhear the introductions. She’s from Georgia, originally. She’s going to LSU. She went back to school as a 36-year-old. Wants to study law. Real estate law.
He’s from a little town outside Red Stick. A sugar cane farmer. His wife is dead. He tells her he brought both kids tonight because he wanted to be upfront on their first date. He wants her to know that his kids are the most important part of his life. And they are a package deal.
She nods. She gets it. She knows he’s a widower. She wasn’t born yesterday, she’s telling him. If she wasn’t interested she wouldn’t be here.
He blushes.
So do I.
“How are you handling day-to-day life without your wife?” the woman asks.
It’s a fair question. She’s not delving too deeply into his business, but she’s asking about domestic practicalities because—this is not a sexist remark—she is a woman.
How is he handling changing diapers? Preparing lunches for school? How about laundry? How about grocery shopping? Is he managing? Is life a complete mess?
“It’s really hard,” he admits. “But we’re doing the best we can.”
She smiles.
He does too.
So do I.
“I know you must miss her,” she says.
He nods. But he holds it together. He tells her he’s ready to start dating again. His kids need a mom. And he’s not able to be a single dad. His parents are dead. He has no support system. He’s lost.
Soon, they are over the awkward hump. They are laughing. They are telling stories. They are getting along. They’re eating bacon and eggs. If I had to guess, just going by their body language, I’d say they’re hitting it off.
They stay for a long time. They drink a lot of coffee. Before they leave, he picks up the bill. She offers to pay, but she’s all hat and no cattle.
Like I said. Chivalry.
They walk out of the establishment. They are standing on the sidewalk. Still talking. He’s holding the baby carrier. His son is standing close by him.
They’re still laughing and chatting.
Finally, they shake hands. So formal. The date is officially over. She hesitates. Then, she leans over and kisses his cheek.
He is somewhat stupefied.
She leaves him by trotting across the parking lot to her car. He just watches her go. He stands on the sidewalk while her Nissan eases out of the parking area. Tail lights blaring.
The kid plays on his iPad. The baby in the carrier is fast asleep.
The man is still touching his cheek. He’s smiling.
And so am I.
As I read, I am lost in the words and have gone totally cinematic. I hope this goes the distance and their hopes are all fulfilled. Sounds like you just witnessed the makings of a new family. Thanks for the movie!
Peace and Love to all from Birmingham. 🙏♥️
Oh Sean. What a pretty love story! Nice job capturing those details, as you enjoyed your own waffle and composed your column all at once. There’s some impressive multi-tasking right there. 🤗
I have a Waffle House story, (though not a love story) with apologies in advance to David. 🙄
A hundred or so years ago when I was a pup copilot for a large international carrier but of such a seniority or juniority, one might say, that the large metropolitan centers for layovers were out of my reach. After several flights on our small jet in and out of our large southern hub, we ended up for the night in a small southern city, laying over at whatever hotel the company and the union negotiated for us. They were usually nice and in shouting distance to restaurants, shopping, running trails, or other entertainments. The captain and I dragged our bags into the lobby after tipping the van driver and retrieved our keys that the hotel management had ready for our scheduled arrival. As part of this regular routine, we discussed our pickup time for our return to the airport in the morning. Then also, commonly, we would discuss dining that evening. This night it was after supper time. We were starving, having missed lunch and dinner with an airline crew’s normally hectic schedule, other than a sack of peanuts. He invited me to go with him to a fancy-shmancy (this is a technical term) restaurant that I usually don’t prefer on a regular day for dietetic and economic reasons. I politely begged off and said that I planned to go grab a waffle at the Waffle House then go to bed, pointing at said Waffle House conveniently located kitty-cornered across the street.
He said, “You’re going to eat at Waffle House?”
“Yes,” I responded. “It’s late, I’m hungry now, and Waffle House is right there.”
He asked incredulously, “You eat at Waffle House?!”
“Um, yes.”
“What do you eat there?” he asked, bug-eyed and amazed. I heard the front desk gal observing this exchange, audibly snort.
I tried to be cool so as not to disrespect the captain, who was decidedly a city boy and decidedly not southern, poor guy.
I said, as calmly as I could, without snorts, eye rolls, or derision, “I’m going to have a waffle.”
His eyes bugged out as he responded, “A waffle?! At this time of day?”
“Yes.”
He pressed, “Do you mean to say they serve breakfast at” looking at his watch, the fancy kind like pilots wear, “8 o’clock at night?!”
“Yes.”
He queried, “Are you going right now?”
I said, “Yes, as soon as I put my things in my room and change clothes.”
He shyly asked, “May I accompany you?”
I said, “Of course,” looking at my own fancy watch, “about 20 minutes?”
This was agreed upon and we headed for the elevators and to our rooms. Twenty minutes later we met up in the lobby and proceeded to our selected dining establishment.
My dinner companion was bedazzled. The plastic placemat menu was like a Christmas morning to him. Breakfast all day was like a fantasy to him. As he studied the menu front and back, he noticed they did have steaks, hamburgers, and other sandwiches.
He asked, “How are the steaks here?”
I said, “I’ve never tried them. I have seen people order them with their eggs, but I’m here for the waffles. We are in Waffle House, after all.”
“True,” he muttered, making more decisions than I normally observe at a Waffle House, while I was trying not to snicker at him. We were having a regulation cultural exchange here. I wanted to enlighten, not put down.
He said, “The thing is, my wife would murder me if she finds out I had these kinds of foods at dinner. My doctor recommends against cholesterol-rich foods and she cracks the whip at home.”
I fully understand and sympathize with dietetic restrictions. We all need to watch what goes into the pie-hole and balance it with requirements and sensitivities. I had no input or advice for him on this. We were in Waffle House, after all.
The waitress, Edna, had been calling the orders to the short order chefs like they do. I can’t imitate it. It’s a wonderful art, part of the Waffle House entertainment. Someone ordered some hash browns their way, and my dinner companion was mesmerized by the “scattered, smothered, covered, sprinkled, chopped, topped, and diced” that the patron had ordered and she had, without a hitch or hesitation, shared with the short order chef. It took a whole other explanation and conversation to explain the waitress’s orders and the thing about the Waffle House hash browns.
My captain’s head was spinning.
Edna came back around to see if we were ready. I’d been ready, but he was so bedazzled and delighted by the place he couldn’t decide. I was getting the shakes and wondered if I dared to impolitely order before he was ready.
She addressed the captain, “Have you decided, Sugar?” at which his cheeks flamed red at being called “Sugar,” and I thought he might have to start all over. Instead he collected himself, as any experienced aviator in an emergency would, in order to address the matter at hand, and addressed our waitress with a question.
“This right here,” indicating on the plastic placemat where they highlighted the Special. He asked, “Does it include all this?” incredulous that for around 5 bucks (this was a while ago) he could get a couple eggs any way he liked them, a couple different meats, bread as he chose, hash browns or grits, juice, and the coffee he was already enjoying. Edna nodded in affirmation, then it took another little bit for her to walk him through the choices he had. He’d never tried grits so he struggled with that choice. He went with the hash browns, plain. I ordered the waffle, one egg over light, and added a side of grits just for the educational value for my cohort. Edna entertained him mightily by transmitting his order, and mine, in the Waffle House lingo like they so delightfully do.
Dinner was ambrosia. He loved the grits and finished my side dish of them. We both happily cleaned our plates. Edna handed us each a bill and he snatched mine up before I could grab it. As he gallantly paid the bill for the two of us, he couldn’t believe he got so much change from his $20 bill. He gave it to Edna along with the $20 he’d already left on the table. Everyone was happy.
In my experience, this is a regular Waffle House experience. They are a wonderful institution and I hope they never change. That Sean overheard the beginnings of a love story there is no surprise to me.