Open All Night

After a delayed flight, and a chase though Atlanta's airport (is there any other kind?), there was finally arrival.  But as settled as one could get, I'm still on Pacific time.  Late as it might be here in the South, it's dinner time to me...hmmm, late night, where do you go?  Ah, that's right.

There was no negotiation; I wouldn't allow it.  My sixth sense took over and noticed that we were in a sweet spot: after dinner, before the bars empty out.  (DO the bars empty out down here?  Well, the families with teen drinkers where everyone piles in the pick-up and annoy all around.)

When we arrived, there was no one else inside.  The crew was hanging out in the kitchen, shooting the breeze.  As we sat, it was immediately go time...not for us, for the staff.

Well, maybe it was for us diners, too.  Whether it's myth or hearsay, I knew I'd get a pecan waffle.  I knew that I'd also "need" biscuits and gravy, especially when the friendly waitress recommended it.  I added grilled tomatoes to hash browns (because I'm on a health kick).  Unsweetened ice tea, please.  And I reflect.

I don't know why, exactly, but I knew to be sure of my order.  Smiley, on the other hand, near life-long Angeleno...was looking for salads.  She tried to order off menu.  Her other asks, for a "fruit bowl" and the standard "Do you have any flavored iced tea?" were politely declined.  Her eventual order placed, I apologized to the waitress.  Knowing it was the first time, she begged off any need for remorse.  As the order was told to the cooks I set the menu aside and leaned in.

"Look, you're at Waffle House.  I know you THINK you understand this, but look around.  Now look at the menu.  Don't disrespect Waffle House with this talk about "salad."  You want fruit?  Here's some jam for that biscuit.  They do their thing, and quite well."  'I was just asking' was the response.  Feigned ignorance.

Plates came out, and kept coming out.  More and more food, all of it seemingly earth-toned, and all delicious.  I did the damage I could, and toward the end a rabble-rousing family tried to cram in a nearby booth.  The patriarch was stoic, the mother with a heavy amount of vocal fry, and the offspring were all laughing.  The son was frequently asking about grits: can I substitute, did you get my order, where are they?  For the briefest flash, I was in downtown LV, but that faded away.

That feeling?  That's still with me, because when the rental Cadillac reflected the glow of the neon sign, I realized I had made quite the achievement.  Rolled up in a Caddy to the Waffle House (as you do), put it away while chatting up the help, and off for more adventures.  To this Goldland resident (not lifelong, but nearing 2 decades) it was the real fuel I needed.