The Third Day of Christmas. My three French hens must have gotten lost in the mail. The weather was a stolid 34 degrees. The water in the dog bowls was stone. The sun was out.
Waffle House was warm and inviting. The parking lot was mostly empty except for a few muddy trucks. My wife and I had an 11-year-old with us. She is blind. This is her first time attending a Waffle House.
“Have a seat wherever,” said the server.
We found a table in the corner. A booth. Red vinyl. Faux wood table. Laminated menus. Napkin dispenser.
Going to Waffle House is one of my most cherished habits. I go a few times every week. Sometimes more often, if I’m on the road. I give the Waffle House corporation half my annual income. And I do it gladly.
But going to a Waffle House with a blind child is another matter entirely. The whole ordeal is different. For starters, the multisensory experience begins with the nose.
“That smell,” the child said, as we walked into the door.
She used her white cane to trace the perimeter of the aisle, navigating between booth and bar and jukebox.
“What is that smell?” she said. Nose to the ceiling.
“It’s bacon,” said my wife.
When you walk into a Waffle House, it’s the smell that gets you first. The smell of cured pork and frying tuber vegetables. It hits you in the back of the throat. If you’re lucky, the scent works its way into the fibers of your clothes. And it stays with you all day.
The child was smiling. “This place smells delicious.”
“Welcome to Waffle House,” said the server.
We told the waitress it was the kid’s first time visiting.
The employees made a big deal about it. You would have thought Young Harry and Meghan Markle were entering the premises.
We sat. We talked. The waitress gave the kid a complimentary paper hat.
I’ve known people who worked at Waffle House. The industry term for this hat is the Confidence Killer. But it looked good on the girl.
The waitress gave me a paper hat too. She put it on my head. I looked like an unhappy mess-hall sergeant.
The child is thrilled to be here and she doesn’t care who knows. She is dancing in her seat. Bouncing in rhythm to the jukebox music. Which is Taylor Swift.
“Are you having a good day” says our waitress.
“Yes, we are!!” says the kid, using not one but two exclamation points.
She ordered eggs, scrambled. Bacon, crispy. White toast, buttered within an inch of its grain. Strawberry jam. An Irish pint of chocolate milk. A giant waffle—blueberry.
The waitress drew a whipped-cream smiley face on the waffle. Nobody asked her to do that.
When the meal was finished, the waitresses asked, “Has it been a good first visit to Waffle House?”
But the kid can’t answer. Her mouth is still full.
So the waitresses offered to pose for a picture with us, to commemorate the monumental occasion. One that will not soon be forgotten.
We all pose. The photographer holds the camera and tells us all to smile. “Say cheese,” says the photographer.
“No,” says one waitress, kissing the blind girl’s head. “Don’t say cheese. On the count of three, let’s everyone say, ‘Love!’”
Whereupon every customer joined in unison, counting down with the photographer. We all counted.
“ONE…! TWO…!”
Love.
My wife and I had Christmas breakfast at our local Waffle House in Tuscumbia, Alabama. It was glorious.
To those who don't frequent Waffle House, it is impossible to describe the allure, the charm, the warmth of the food, your fellow diners and the employees.
There is nothing that even compares.
Scrambled eggs, bacon, smothered hash browns, whole wheat toast and fresh, hot coffee is as close to perfection as there is. Of course the Mrs said substitute a pecan waffle.
To top it off, our cheery, Christmas waitress was named Holly.
Aw that got me! 😭 Beautiful Waffle House memory!
We used to attend Waffle House with a regularity: waffle, 1 egg fried over lightly, hash browns scattered, covered, smothered, chunked, topped, and diced. I didn’t mess with my order, it was perfection. Our beautiful cousins passing through on their twice annual pilgrimage between Florida and the Adirondacks would request a visit to Waffle House and we would go there ourselves now and then. As we age, it’s not exactly dietetically recommended, but we still love it and miss our formerly frequent visits.
My favorite Waffle House story is a layover in my airline life. I was a pup copilot on a smaller airplane and the captain was a seasoned older gentleman originally from New York City, recently relocated with his lovely wife to Georgia. We had been up and down all day long on the shorter legs the smaller planes performed, with zero time for sustenance or a break. We checked into the hotel (I forget which city, but somewhere decidedly southern), it was around 7pm after a 12 hour work day, and I was starved. Airline peanuts only take you so far.
The captain, who was very nice, asked me if I was going to dine that evening. (It’s how he talked - he was from the fancy area of NYC).
I said, “I’m famished and exhausted. I’m going to that Waffle House right there,” pointing out the front window to the establishment very close by.
Startled, he said, “You’re going to eat there?!”
“Yes,” I answered brooking no argument, I was hungry and tired. We had another long day starting early in the morning. It was a crew duty to attain nourishment and rest.
He was flummoxed. He stuttered, “You eat there?!”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s a restaurant.” I noticed the front desk fellow snorting at the bi-play.
The captain said, “I’ve heard of it, but I didn’t realize it was an actual restaurant. What do they serve there?”
I looked at him funny and said, “Waffles.”
The front desk guy helpfully added, “They also have hamburgers and steaks. It’s good!”
The captain was rocked back on his heels, but said, “Would you mind if I accompany you to dine at Waffle House?”
I tried not to snort at that but managed, “I’d be delighted. Meet here in 15 minutes?” and we proceeded to our rooms to change from uniform to layover attire.
We met and walked over to the Waffle House. He was completely excited about this new “dining experience.”
As we entered, the employees all cheered their hello which startled the sweet captain. He asked, “Do they know you here?”
Laughing, I said, “No. this is my first time in this particular Waffle House. They welcome all customers that way. It’s part of the experience.” I began to think I was a cultural tour guide.
I led him to a booth and began perusing the menu even though I already knew what I wanted. I noted they’d added an item or two to the hash browns ways. I used to get to say “all the way” but now I needed to specify. Nothing else of note on the menu.
The happy waitress came along with coffee cups and started filling them up. The captain was flustered. It was 8 o’clock at night, and he hadn’t ordered coffee. He saw me take a sip of mine and shyly asked the waitress if they had decaf. She said, “Sure, Hon,” and reached the orange-topped carafe in a second. The captain was flushed red.
I placed my order and the waitress looked to the captain. He stammered, “Um, I don’t have a menu, so I . . . “
I realized that he didn’t realize the plastic placement in front of him was a menu. I quickly pointed this out, so he began a quick read.
The happy waitress said, “Take your time, Sweetie!” and went off to attend other customers.
He apologized profusely to me.
I said, “No, this is a casual place. She’ll be back as soon as she assesses you’ve decided. It’s like magic. The other side has choices also.”
He flipped the placemat over and noted the more non-breakfast choices.
He said, “Have you tried the steak here?”
“No, I like the waffles and hash browns.”
“For dinner?!” he asked almost shocked at the idea.
I said, “This is Waffle House. I have the waffles. If I want steak, I go to a proper steak house.”
He thought about that a second, nodded at this safe advice, flipped the menu back to the waffle side and studied intently. My stomach growled in jealousy as the cooks slung the orders out entertainingly called by the amazing waitresses. I never mastered the patter but I loved hearing it. As the captain studied, he looked up and asked, “Are they calling out the orders?”
“Yes,” I smiled. “Isn’t that cool? It’s part of the experience.”
“Wow,” he said as he shook his head. “I had no idea this would be so entertaining. So, do they really serve breakfast all day long?”
“Yes, 24 hours a day. Get your waffles, eggs, and bacon here.”
With a big smile, obviously enjoying this “dining experience” so far, he went back to his study of the menu.
After a minute or so, he looked up and like magic, our happy waitress swooped over to our booth. He’d been about to address me with a question, but instead asked her, “Does this special really come with all this?” It was the one with eggs how you want them, 3 different meets, hash browns or grits, and toast, biscuit, or waffle.
She said, “Yes it does, Honey.”
He said, “Don’t tell my wife, but I want that!” and had the most delighted smile I’d seen all day, as he pointed to the “special” which had been the “special” in my decades-long relationship with Waffle House.
She pinched his cheek and said, “Your secret is safe with me, Sugar.”
Then they spent another few minutes ironing out how he wanted his eggs, bread, and potatoes. He was afraid of the grits. I ordered a side of grits - I thought he ought to try them, if he wanted the full “experience.” He settled on wheat toast over the waffle or biscuit, remarking about the diet his wife demanded.
I remarked, “This is the Waffle House. I recommend the waffles.”
The waitress was highly entertained by our ordering. So was I, especially after she translated our orders to the cooks.
He said, “Was that our order?!”
“It was,” I answered. “Isn’t that great? I love how they do that.”
He asked, “Will we get what we ordered?”
“Guaranteed,” I assured him.
Within 5 minutes our steaming plates were delivered by the happy waitress. She brought him a waffle “on the house” because “this IS Waffle House.”
We tucked in. It was ambrosia. I felt human again. My coffee cup never emptied and as I scraped my plates of every last crumb, I sat back happy and satiated. Shortly, so did the captain.
He said, “I thought these places were a joke. This wonderful food is no joke. The beautiful service is no joke.”
The happy waitress came by and topped up our coffee cups and dropped off our checks. Like a striking snake, he grabbed mine, insisting on his treat. I explained that you pay at the cash register. He left an eye-popping tip for the happy waitress, and when he paid at the cash register, he argued that he wanted to pay for both meals. He couldn’t understand the amount being just under $10.
It’s really good when you can educate people. I felt particularly good about this special “dining experience” at Waffle House.