Waffle House

I was at the Gulf Coast for a couple of days this week at the Alabama Forestry Association annual meeting. The hotel and conference where we stayed is very nice, but they wanted fifteen bucks for the breakfast buffet. I would not pay that much for breakfast unless it involved a very large piece of beef with a bone in it. Instead, we opted for a Waffle House just down the strip.

I'm not sure if the Waffle House is a nationwide franchise. I do know that it is a fixture of the Southern landscape, as common and prolific as Kudzu and pine trees.

It is a decent place to eat breakfast. Now especially, since most restaurants have banned smoking. Before, it was difficult to eat there without a lingering fear of acquiring lung cancer along with your eggs and bacon.

The Waffle House at Orange Beach, Alabama is a microcosm of the diversity that is the "New South."

As we came in the door we were greeted by a cacophony of voices from all the employees: "Good morning," "Hello," Welcome," "How's it going?" and other variations. It is a little disconcerting to be received with such a welcome early in the morning. If you weren't fully awake, you are now.

The place was packed, so we sat at the counter in the last two available seats.

Our waitress was a middle-aged woman. I must assume that she has migrated South from New Jersey. She asked us if "You's wants some cawfee?" She was all business, this one. She possessed the curtness that Southerners usually assume is rudeness. Perhaps it is just the Yankee way of picking up our slow pace of life. She took our orders quickly and moved on. I never saw her stop moving for the thirty minutes or so that we are there. She had obviously done the waitress thing for a while.

Her young assistant was apparently a trainee. She was in her early twenties and had "Jesus" tattooed on her neck. Whether this refers to the Savior or a Hispanic lover, only she knew. I hope that she likes her work and is successful at it, because she may be doing it for a long time. I don't believe most of corporate America is ready for neck tattoos, unless of course your last name is Jolie.

The grill man was a big strapping guy, probably late twenties. He moved like a machine as the orders flew in from all corners. No wasted movements, this one. He wore the Waffle House uniform like a Marine wears his dress blues. His chef's smock had the word "GRILL MASTER" embroidered in large letters across the back. This I suppose to clear up any confusion we may have had that our eggs were being prepared by a rank amateur.

The lady at the register was young and Black. She was quick and efficient. This establishment thrives on volume. Move them in and out, honey, that's how we make money.

A young Hispanic man removed our plates and cups before we are out the door, putting them in a large plastic bin to be taken to the dishwasher. Beside him, an elderly lady with a dish towel awaited to wipe down the counter and prepare the spot for the next customers, who are already moving in that direction.

The whole breakfast experience took less than thirty minutes. Diversity and waffles--maybe we all can "get along."