Waffle House – A Scattered, Smothered and Covered Story

ATHENS, GA – With only a few days until the end of the semester, I trudged into the Waffle House at Five Points in Athens on a Friday night, hungry, frustrated and badly in need of a Biology Information transfusion. My exam was just days away, and what I knew about biology wouldn’t fit in a frog’s spleen. Disheveled, discouraged, and desperately broke, I plopped into a corner booth and laid out my torturous study materials, hoping for a miracle.

She came to the table, all smiles and sweet Southern charm. Her name was Vicky, “with a ‘Y’,” she emphasized, and she wanted to know what she could do for me.

“Well, you could take my biology final,” I joked. She smiled and said something to the effect of “heck no” and then asked what I would like to drink.

“Coffee. Lots of it. And keep it coming,” I replied. I knew that I would need an undending source of caffeine if I were to make it to Monday morning and my exam. And fortunately, the good people of Waffle House have never seen fit to do two things: charge by the cup or raise their coffee prices. There is nothing in the world finer than a bottomless cup of 69 cent coffee, especially when you’re a third-year college student with less cash than Social Security.

“Anything to eat?” Vicky asked. I meekly shook my head no. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I stole barely enough change from my roommates change cup in his car to cover the cost of coffee. She sashayed back to the coffee pot and poured a steaming hot cup of deep black bliss into a slightly crusty mug. Then, being a sweet woman, she transferred it to another cup, this one a little cleaner. She brought it to me, patted my shoulder and said, “If you need anything else, let me know.”

“I might be here a while,” I said, nodding towards the books strewn in front of me.

“Hey, we’re open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Take all the time you need.” And with that, she went back to the counter to help another customer.

A quick secret about WaHo coffee – or any coffee for that matter: if, at first taste, it’s a little bitter – like maybe it’s been sitting for too long or was simply brewed too strong – add just a dash of salt before you add your cream or sugar. It’s an old sailor’s trick that my grandfather taught me, and it can make just about the nastiest cup of coffee you’ve ever tasted as smooth as a politician’s lies.

I got my coffee settled (1 dash salt, 2 packets of half-n-half, 1 pound of sugar) and began to go over my notes, which read like Chinese arithmetic. I nursed that one cup for over an hour, with Vicky making the occasional pass to offer a “freshenin’ up” of the joe. I turned her down each time, feeling guilty for being so cheap. Finally, well into the second hour, she just snatched the cup from my hand and poured me a refill. “If you’re gonna sit here that long,” she said, “you’re gonna at least drink hot coffee.”

After that, every 30 minutes, whether I asked her to or not, Vicky came by and refreshed my cup of coffee. She even switched out mugs for me when I finally took a potty break around three in the morning. And when the sun broke the sky outside, she waited for her replacement and told her to take extra care of me. “He’s studying so hard, like his life is on the line. So you be sure to help him,” she directed the new server.

“Well, as long as he don’t raise no fuss, I’ll help him all he wants,” the new server, Veronica, snarled. Shift change is not the best time to catch wait staff at their best. But it was the best way to get good food – the new line cook (his name was Benny, and he replaced Wallace, who had several large tattoos of naked women on his arms) shot me a plate of scrambled eggs with cheese and some toast. I told him I wasn’t hungry, and he told me to eat it or he’d beat my head into the table.

I ate the eggs and the toast. I even used jelly.

That shift was uneventful, if you consider 4,000 hungover college students trying to eat enough grease to negate the effects of the previous night uneventful. Saturday mornings at WaHo, IHOP and Huddle House are monstrous. So many people wanting to eat, so many people willing to push, shove and cheat their way to a plate of syrupy goodness, it’s almost overwhelming. And in the middle of all of the chaos are the servers, who are calling out 300 orders per minute, and the line cooks who are handling 300 orders from 6 different servers all at once, without burning or messing up one single order.

“HBs, double, scattered, smothered, covered, topped, diced, chunked and give it wings with a side of sliced pig nice and toasty! Pee-can discus with a side of snausage, two eggs over-easy with whole wheat toast! One T and eggs, medium, with extra cheese and a bowlful of Quakers!”

It’s another language, and it’s almost beautiful to watch and hear how well these fine people manage the chaotic tide. It’s also deeply disturbing to see the class divide – how poorly the servers and cooks are treated by people who think they are better than them. I even heard one kid, who was in one of my classes that semester, say, “If you’ll take extra care with my order, I’ll leave an extra quarter for your tip, and you’ll be able to get them new rims for your Camaro.” I wanted to punch the guy, but the server he was talking to, I think her name was Carla, just leaned in real close and said, “Actually, I drive an Acura. Maybe you can save that quarter for something a little more personal – like a phone call to your favorite 1-900 number.”

I love WaHo waitresses.

I ended up staying in that same corner booth from Friday night until Monday morning. Never left to take a shower, never ordered anything other than that one cup of coffee. When I got up to go to the bathroom, or to step outside for a smoke (yes, I used to smoke) the current staff would bus the table, careful not to mess with my notes, and they would drop me some small morsel of food – a slice of bacon here, a sandwich there. Once a lady complained that her waffle was “overdone.” The server, a skinny fella by the name of Brent, brought it over to me and asked, “You want this?”

“What’s wrong with it?” I asked.

“The person who ordered it is a…” and he proceeded to list some colorful phrases in describing the persnickety customer. Loud enough for her to hear. Later, when he brought her the second waffle, looking much the same as the first, he asked her if it was to her liking. She smiled, took the plate and scarfed it down in record time.

I tell you all of this because Waffle House has recently opened its own museum, constructed in the building which housed the very first Waffle House (for more on the museum, and WaHo history in general, click here). It’s a darn fine Southern institution, and I wanted to celebrate with them. They deserve it, if for nothing else than helping millions of hurting college students survive the stupidest years of their lives.

And by the way, I got a 87 on my biology exam. The memory trick that Shasta showed me on Sunday night really worked.