Waffle Haus: Die Scheiße Weiter
I recently went to Waffle House with a friend. It was 3 AM, obviously we didn't think clearly about our decision. Upon walking in, we were greeted by the high school drama kid rejects, all doomed to work in the confines of a school bus yellow building for the rest of their foreseeable futures. We took a seat at one of the many open tables, thus bringing the customer level to 5. Our lovely waitress came over to us, only to begin bitching about working a 12 hour shift. Just what I want, to hear about a complete stranger's problems in the wee hours of the morning. We politely nod our heads, hoping to god she'll catch the hint, Eventually, she takes our drink order. I order coffee and my friend orders juice.
"Just to let you know, there's no refills on the juice."
"...I figured. It's juice."
"OK, well I just wanted to make sure you know."
"...Guess I'll just have to be a slow sipper."
The drinks come out, and after another long awkward conversation with our waitress, we finally get to place our food orders. In case you haven't ever been to Waffle House, the only thing on the menu you should never get is the waffles. I know, I know. How does that make sense? One of the great ironies in life, isn't it. But then, they don't call it the Awful Waffle for nothing. I mean, you'd probably get a better flavor profile from a cardboard box. No, you should never get a waffle here. Instead, always opt for the hash browns. It's not that they're good, it's just the one thing they somehow manage to not fuck up.
The Awful Waffle Makes Awful Waffles, or How To Clog Your Heart In One Sitting
Just in case you don't have your pocket sized menu on ya, above you can see any combination of hash browns and greasy shit you could imagine. My friend ordered her's Smothered, and Peppered. And then had to reiterate to our waitress twice:
"OK, so that's smothered, covered, and peppered?"
"No, just smothered and peppered, not covered. Just smothered and peppered."
Special girl, our waitress. I ordered Smothered, Covered, Peppered, and Topped, cuz what the hell ya only live once. I also ordered some eggs.
"Scrambled, with cheese. Cheddar."
"We only have one kinda cheese."
"OK, that's fine. I'll take that."
"Just one kind. Cheap, processed cheese. Just cheap, processed cheese."
"Wow, you're really doing a good job of selling it. I don't care what it is, that'll work fine."
"Yeah I don't know what it is, I just know it melts real good."
Ok, folks, ignoring the obvious lapses in good customer service that are painfully obvious, what else is wrong with this picture?! Did you really just say you only have one type of cheese? Where the fuck am I, some third world country!? This is America! Every diner in America has an entire pasture's worth of cheese just taking up space, just crying out to be consumed. Is there a secret upcharge I need to pay? Believe me, I will gladly pay for anything that can be described more elegantly than "cheap, processed cheese." Call it "that Mexican tasting cheese," call it "like, pizza cheese." I don't give a shit, just don't tell me that I am at a diner chain based in the South with ONLY ONE KIND OF CHEESE.
While I'm placing my order, my friend and I both know notice the baby roach crawling over the table. We also both realize if we bring it to our waitress's attention, we'll be subjected to another half hour of talking to this girl, so we keep quiet. Order complete, our waitress hands it over to the poor sucker behind the grill. After a couple shouts over to us to confirm that she took the order right, our food comes out. If nothing else, at least the slop came out fast. The better to leave this hell hole and make it back home before my bowels turn on me.
Southern Culture In The Skid Marks
Before me, I stare at an abomination of all things delicious. The only thing missing is the Jello Keylime Pie. Well, that and the fucking cheese I ordered. In case you were too lazy to read folks, Smothered, Covered, Peppered, and Topped really translates to onions, melted cheese, jalapeños, and chili. All tossed in with something I am to believe at one point was potato based. In place of the cheese I ordered was diced up pieces of ham. Not delicious Sunday morning country ham. No, this was more akin to Carl Budding ham. And if that's too low class for even you, think Oscar Mayer Bologna but worse. Really, think any sad, wilted salad buffet in America and you can picture the ham, sitting right next to the three day old hard boiled eggs and the too-bright-to-really-be-bacon bacon bits. That is NOT what I ordered. I have no desire to slurp up a bunch of pig lips and chicken assholes with my hash mess. But, then again, telling the waitress would just result in talking to her more. I see what you did here, Waffle House. You tricked me! You tricked me into just settling for this shit, because to get down the yellow brick road to what I really ordered requires going through the flying monkeys you employ. Sneaky bastards!
I make it through the hash browns, then turn my attention to the soggy mass that is my eggs and cheese. I can't be quite certain, but I think the eggs may have winked at me. I mean, if science teachers ever want to give their kids an up close and personal look at an amoeba, just bring 'em on down to Waffle House and order the eggs. Knowing that I couldn't get through this artery clogging mass without copious amounts of ketchup and hot sauce to the point where I couldn't even remember what the original flavor was supposed to be, I was finally forced to flag down the waitress again, flying monkeys be damned (even I have my limits).
"Do you guys have any Texas Pete?"
"Nope, whatcha see is what ya got."
"You really don't have anything besides Tabasco?"
"Nuh uh, but I heard if ya mix the two it kinda tastes like it. Ya want me to get ya a little bowl?"
"Nope. Guess I'll just deal with this."
Side note: I detest Tabasco. I think it is completely devoid of all flavor and merely serves as a means to burn your tongue. I mean Sriracha has more flavor, and that shit's basically chili paste.
I also find it mind boggling that, in the South, I can yet again find the ONE DINER that doesn't carry something. I mean hot sauce is a staple of Southern breakfast. It didn't even need to be Texas Pete. Frank's, Crystal, any of that shit would work. Not even a fucking drop! I contemplated walking across the street to the 7-11 to buy a bottle, I really did. But then I reminded myself that I was getting far to invested in a meal that would hardly be digested by the time the shits would set in. I settled with drowning my eggs in ketchup. I mean it looked like a goddamn murder scene. With that finished, all that was left was the toast.
Now, I don't know about you, but every diner I've ever been to has jelly on the table. Not at Waffle House! In an effort to save costs, they force you to go through the flying monkeys to get some goddamn fruit flavored gelatin.
"Hey, could I get some jelly?"
"Yeah, what kind did you want?"
"We have grape, and strawberry, and-"
"Yeah, I'll just take the strawberry."
"OK. We also have mint, and mixed berry, and orange."
"Yeah, no I just want the strawberry. Thanks."
Really, Waffle House?! You don't have hot sauce, but you have mint jelly? Where the hell do you think you are?! East London?! The waitress brings out two measly packets of jelly for my now rock hard toast. As I'm opening the packet, that little corner with the tab rips off, cutting me off from all hope of using that one. Thank god I have two! I make it through my first slice of bread, and have to use the entire packet of jelly just to reconstitute the bread to something resembling edible. And then I remembered I only had the one packet to work with. I mean, sure I could probably flag down the waitress and get another packet, so I did what any logical person would do in my situation. I used a butter knife to stab open the packet, managing to only send half the jelly airborne.
We finished eating, and flagged down our waitress to get our check. About this time, another table (making that two of us at this point) came and sat down. Like a small child with a new toy, our waitress forgot about us. HOW, in a restaurant the size of a small garage and with only two tables, she managed to pull that off, I'm still not sure. So we waited. And waited. And waited. Until finally, I just walked up to the other girl at the counter, a whopping six feet from our waitress to ask for the bill.
Then she literally walked over to our waitress to get the bill. Except our waitress didn't have it on her so she had to walk over to her pile of shit, which for some reason was allowed to be all over a table, to find our check. When that failed, we were on the honor policy and had to recite back our order. Without fail, the waitress asked
"You sure you didn't get them smothered, covered, and peppered, hon?"