I spent some time on the road this past weekend, traveling from DC, through Chapel Hill, NC, and then over to my family's house on the North Carolina coast. One of the things I most love about interstate driving is Waffle House. Unless I am most direly pressed for time, I always eat at Waffle House when I am on the road. Waffle House (hereinafter referred to as "WH" or "the house" as the kids call it) is an American treasure and, on the occasion of its 50th birthday I want to give the House some props.
Perhaps it is a Southern thing, but I get a smile inside every single time I see that black and yellow sign on the interstate highway announcing that the next exit does in fact contain a Waffle House. Sometimes my smile is a big teethy grin and perhaps a few shouts of joy accompany it because my hunger has overwhelmed me. Other times, it is a quiet, personal thing of minor proportion - but it happens every time, whether I stop to eat or not.
Why is this? There really isn't anything
that special about the House, nothing in particular that is. But this is one of those "whole is greater than the sum of its parts" things. WH isn't just a roadside grease pit selling breakfast, burgers and hashbrowns ... Waffle House is selling a
feeling that you really can't get anywhere else. According the company website, there are 1,470 WH restaurants in the U.S. But it does not matter which one you go to because it is almost uncanny how identical your experience will be.
First of all, Waffle House doesn't close. This isn't one of those businesses with a sign that says "We Never Close" in quotation marks because they don't really mean it. No, WH's sign doesn't have the quotations because they really do
never close. You will be greeted with a smile and a 'hello' from at least one employee behind the counter, no matter what time of day or night, and they actually mean it. The menu is the same in every restaurant and the food tastes the same too. Your food will be prepared right in front of you and as quickly as they can do it (after all, you’re watching them!) and it will be hot and delicious. It may not be the best burger you have ever had but, with those hash browns, it sure
feels like the best you've ever had ... at least for the next twenty minutes.
Which brings us to the hash browns. Maybe that's it; maybe that's the secret. A friend of mine once said in a debate about the House versus more traditional fast food: "But they don't have fries", to which I responded "precisely!!" That scattered, smothered, covered, diced and peppered break from french fries is central to the Waffle House experience. That’s how I order them, and they come scattered across the grill, smothered with onions, covered with cheese, and diced tomatoes and jalapeno peppers are thrown in for good measure. You can also have them “chunked” with ham, “topped” with chili and “capped” with mushrooms. Everybody has their own way and there ain’t no wrong way.
Maybe it’s the oil, or maybe the potatoes soak up the essence of the other items of deliciousness previously prepared on that same grill. Whatever the reason, they are something special. WH hash browns may not work with tuna tartar or a filet mignon (I’d do it) but they elevate that quarter pound burger or bacon, egg and cheese sandwich to the highway exit food hall of fame. And I’m not even going to get into the waffles- just recognize that it is the
Waffle House we’re talking about here.
But it is more than the smile, greeting, and some delicious food. Waffle House shows us how great America can be when it is hungry and knows what is about to come off that grill. Perhaps two retired gentlemen, of different races, are discussing the local sports team or teasing the waitresses in a way that might be inappropriate if the men weren’t senior citizens. Just next to them is a group of baggy-panted juveniles who might otherwise be “whippersnappers” to the old men, but there isn’t a hint of bad energy in the air. There is always a juke box, but it is rarely playing, and never very loud. But being a part of a living, working Waffle House for that forty minute slice of your life needs no soundtrack. (If you choose to drop a quarter in, play “Waffle House Family”- it’s the first selection in every WH jukebox.)
When I left Baton Rouge (where I was for 3 days after I evacuated New Orleans for Hurricane Katrina) my friend and I had to drive across and up the storm ravaged state of Mississippi to get to our more permanent sites of exile. There weren’t many interstate exits with electricity and after we endured one rather crazy line for gas at a station north of Jackson, MS- we held out until we got to Jackson, TN (which is just east of Memphis) before we finally pulled over at a Waffle House. As we ate, the store’s manager, a middle-aged woman, came over and politely asked if we were from New Orleans, having seen the license plate on my car. We said we were and she asked “are you here because of the storm?” and we nodded that we were. She looked over at the other waitresses and a gentleman at the bar and then let us know that they would be buying our dinner that evening. This wasn’t one of those situations where you insist against someone else’s offer to buy your dinner. This wasn’t about dinner- it was about caring for others in a difficult time, and we warmly accepted their gesture.
As I said, Waffle House doesn’t have the best burger. They don’t have the best bacon and they don’t have the best service. But they’re all pretty good and fuse together to give you a feeling that you can get nowhere else, and certainly nowhere else at that interstate exit. It is solid, it is reliable and it is America at its best. Waffle House turns fifty years old this year and I never would have thought that pondering a short order restaurant and what it means to me and this country would be so meaningful. But damnit, I loves me some Waffle House. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
