Monday, August 8, 2022
by Karen Schwabenland Any car ride through the deep south will take you past numerous Waffle Houses. I have Waffle Houses right here in my own home town, but I seldom visit them. Actually I never visit them. I have never been inside a Waffle House in my home city. The closest I have ever come to eating there in Houston, Texas is taking a short cut through their parking lot to avoid a traffic jam. I seldom crave waffles, other than those times I am stuck inside a car rolling down the interstate with nothing to look at except sign after sign advertising them. And such was the happening a few weeks ago on vacation with my family. As we were touring through the state of Louisiana by car. And I use the term 'touring' quite loosely. Husband was at the wheel, I sat shotgun, and our adult son manned the cooler and snack bag in the backseat. We had so much food and drink on board that we didn't really need to stop anywhere to eat. But man cannot live in the car for eight hours straight. We hit the need to feed in Louisiana around noon on a Sunday. My choice of Waffle House was outvoted two to one. We entered the Cracker Barrel restaurant tired and beleaguered. We each needed a restroom, a good leg stretch or walkabout, and some substantial food. I made my way to the hostess station and gave them our name. Told it would be a 45 minute wait, we looked around the gift shop which is part and parcel of any Cracker Barrel restaurant situation. The place was packed with little old ladies in their best church attire. In my traveling rags, no make-up, and recently slept on hair, I felt grossly out of place. The gift shop held interest to me, but to no one else in our small party. After taking turns in the restroom, tripping over Mass attending elderly with canes and walkers blocking the aisles, nearing the point of no return in hunger, and stealing one key lime soda pop (only ever available in the deep south) and which I had fully intended to pay for, we left that place running. I think I put my empty pop bottle on a shelf near the door, but I am still not quite sure. We ended up at a Waffle House that was jam packed as well, but thankfully by then some folks were leaving, so we managed a table right away. Although cleared of dishes, the table top was dirty and the menus worse. The floor was sticky with debris left from what I suppose was the regular Sunday morning rush, or the Saturday late night rush, or possibly the rush the day before that. And, like everywhere else, they were poorly staffed. None of that stopped us however. We seated ourselves, placed our order, and in short time busied ourselves stuffing down waffles, eggs and bacon. In a situation like that, I suggest to just take what they bring you and don't ask questions. I asked for a second cup of coffee. Never came. Son had wanted iced tea. It came but sans the ice. We left a tip because we figured the waitress could use the money, but the service wasn't stellar. And the food barely tolerable. The entire restaurant, including the slippery floor in the bathroom, had a greasy feel that permeated the very plates and cups. After that we largely forgot about that meal. Until we happened to stay in Asheville, N.C. in a very nice hotel right across the street from another, newer Waffle House. "Look at that," I said the first time I noticed it. "That is a brand spanking new Waffle House in walking distance of our hotel." "What are you saying?" asked Husband. "I'm saying we should visit it, that's all. It's brand new. And there's hardly anyone there right now," I spoke up. "No cars around a restaurant usually is a bad sign," said husband. "Well, if you ask me, I think it means it's not the right time of day for waffles. And since it's new and all, I'm guessing it will be cleaner." "Our hotel has waffles every morning for breakfast," said husband. "Those are Belgium waffles. Waffle House only has United States waffles," I persisted. "So by revisiting the scene of a disaster, you mean to improve it." "It's not the scene of the disaster," I said. "It's a new and improved disaster." "I don't see how the food could be any better," said husband. "Keep hope alive!" I said. "We may be in the deep South, but we are no where near Montgomery." "Nearer than we've ever eaten been by far," I said. (To be continued...) |
AuthorKaren Schwabenland--Keeper of a daily blog of written matter, reporter of events large and small, and charlatan extraordinaire Archives
September 2022
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