Daily Local News (West Chester, PA)
Nothing as comforting as visit to Waffle House
Columnist Bill Rettew knows there is nothing as comforting as the Southern hospitality at Waffle House.
In the aftermath of a snowfall, I traveled along Route 1 across the Mason-Dixon Line and into Maryland.
Along the way, I crossed the Conowingo Dam, so that just a little more than an hour after leaving home, I was exploring the South. Seeing all that snow was magical, but I was there for the food.
Nothing says to me that I’m motoring through the South more than Waffle Houses do. They’re peppered at almost every Interstate exit in Florida, Alabama, Mississippi, the Carolinas and Georgia.
It’s tough to miss those black and white beacons in the night. With all of that tile, Waffle Houses are an appreciated refuge and a terrific respite when racking up those highway miles.
Open 24 hours per day, Waffle Houses almost all are similar in construction, and are even more alike than most fast-food chain restaurants. It’s a quick sit-down meal – almost faster than eating at McDonald’s.
Often the server will call me “Hon.”
At all times of the day you’re wished good morning.
“Good morning, Hon,” the waitress inevitably will say.
“But it’s supper time,” I’ll say.
“It’s always breakfast time at Waffle House,” she’ll reply.
I prefer to sit at the counter and watch my meal being prepared. I figure it keeps the staff honest.
Waffle House is basic comfort food. I know what I want before arriving. There are fewer items on the menu than there are at a Taco Bell.
The server will write down your order, but not for the cook’s benefit. He or she will slowly and deliberately verbally state your order. The cook will then place a packet of mayo or slice of cheese at a certain spot on your plate to remind them of what you ordered.
While I’ve never eaten a waffle at a Waffle House, during every visit I chow down on the hashbrowns.
These crispy, grilled potatoes are excellent, but it’s all those toppings that make the joint so special.
I usually order my hashbrowns smothered (grilled onions) and covered (melted cheese). Since I’d driven right by Kennett Square on this particular trip, I also asked for capped (grilled mushrooms). You can also feast on chunked (hickory smoked ham), diced (grilled tomatoes), peppered (jalapeno peppers), topped (Bert’s chili) or country (sausage gravy).
A regular dining companion always asked the server to sing the “Waffle House Song,” which we’d heard was taught to staff as a lesson on properly identifying hash brown toppings.
Everyone refused us, until the time I paid a staffer $5 to sing it over the phone to my buddy.
He was pleased.
Remember juke boxes? They still have them here. You can choose from “Night Shift,” “Waffle House Doo-Wop,” “Waffle House Hash Browns,” “Special Lady at the Waffle House” and my favorite, “Last Night I Saw Elvis at the Waffle House.”
Waffle Houses are special places, especially late at night, but the customers rarely get out of control.
Some Waffle Houses have hung a sign stating that those cursing will be ejected. The Waffle House I recently visited near Bel Air posts a sign that reads: “We strive to give prompt, friendly service to ALL our customers, no matter who they are, what they order or how much they tip.”
I got a bad vibe – but only once – in a Waffle House. A sheriff’s deputy, five servers and a cook stood behind the counter quietly talking.
The only other customer in the place was a man with a beard seated alone at a booth. The staff watched him very closely.
The small town’s police chief, at an exit on the Gulf Coast along I-10, eased into the restaurant and sat down with the bearded man.
The police officer handed the patron, who was eating very slowly, a single piece of Xeroxed paper.
The diner scanned it quickly and raised his voice.
“This guy is 100 pounds heavier than me, with different colored eyes,” he said.
The cop nodded but didn’t apologize. The chief quickly got up and left with the deputy trailing behind. A young server yelped. “You should have told me, why didn’t anybody tell me?” she asked.
Curious, and when no one was looking, I picked up the sheet of paper. It contained a lousy black and white reproduction of a man resembling the patron. The text read that a convict, a murderer, had escaped from the nearby prison and was on the loose.
I can see why the older waitresses held that information from their coworker. If I had known – like they did – I would have over-tipped big and left before eating.
At about the same distance as Bel Air, there’s also a Waffle House in Lancaster County along Route 30.
With Maryland and Lancaster not that far away, I had an urge to visit the South – without going too far. I know just where to go.
It rarely snows in the Deep South, but when it does, visiting a Waffle House is a nice, healthy mix of the North and South.
Next time the white stuff hits, you might find me at a Waffle House, dreaming about palm trees, the beach in December and smothered and covered hashbrowns.