My first Waffle House experience was in my 20’s when I blazed a trail south to start a new life in Hot-lanta. A friend from North Carolina helped me move from New York City. We drove her big ole Cadillac with my belongings in the big ole trunk and back seat, towing my little Honda Civic behind.
I don’t remember why, but something happened that put us in need of AAA service so we decided to stop and eat while waiting for AAA to show up. My friend was surprised when I had suggested the Waffle House because I was a fresh food vegetarian health-nut and she assumed I didn’t eat at chains. Now, I didn’t know it was a chain. I was just thinking cute little southern diner – waffles – yummy. She was thinking bacon grease.
Wrapped up in pure southern ambiance, I delighted in a pecan waffle. My friend scarfed down eggs, bacon and grits, happy not to be eating a salad or the half-dead carrot sticks in my purse.
An hour or so later, AAA had not shown up so I called to find out the problem. In pre-Caller ID frustration but strained southern graciousness, the voice on the line said “WHICH Waffle House off I-85, ma’am?”
Seems the AAA guy was trolling I-85 Waffle Houses looking for me.
Now, whenever I call for a to-go order of pecan waffles, I double-check the street address knowing that Waffle Houses in these parts are smothered, covered and scattered everywhere!
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