The Manda Relives a Moment From Her Youth



The last time I remember going to theWaffle House was a stop with The Heathen my last semester of college. We were on the way back to campus after driving many hours to and from my grandmother's funeral.


The Waffle House* was always the go-to location for eating after a night out at the fraternities or, when we were feeling especially fancy, a bar or club. We had a local diner as well, Dottie's, which I hope is still there, but Dottie's was all the way on the other side of town, and sometimes we just couldn't make it that far.

And sometimes you want to order something "scattered, covered, smothered, and diced." Those would be the hashbrowns, and they fry those bad boys up in a ring filled with grease before the scattering, smothering, covering and dicing commences.

At 2:00 in the morning the Waffle House clientele is a little, well, different. I had a friend in college who used to call it "the who's who of mental illness." Not sure that applies, but it's a reasonably cheerful mix of sauced college kids, truck drivers, second shifters, and maybe a few oddities thrown in for flavor. It's great people watching.

Down South, there's a Waffle House on just about every interstate exit, and this feature is the primary redeeming quality of I-95 in northern Maryland. On our harebrained adventure to our nation's capital, I was promised a waffle, and I got a waffle.

The clientele on a Sunday morning includes people coming out of church, people going to church, weirdos who have just attended a rally to restore comedy, and lightly sauced college kids.

They don't have the Waffle House up North. The Suz and I have thought about selling all our stuff and getting the first franchise in Massachusetts. We figure we'd make a killing or end up killing each other.

I mention this because K-Rock and Special K were Waffle House Virgins. NayNay knew about it as a result of a long-distance relationship that ended years ago but carried on far too long. And The Suz and me, it goes without saying, are old hands at the Waffle House, even though neither of us had been to one in at least a decade.

It's like riding a bicycle. You never forget how to order. There were hashbrowns. There was bacon. There were eggs. Don't judge me, but I passed on the grits-- turns out you can get them in New England if you know where to look, but you can't get anything scattered, smothered, covered and diced without facing felony charges.

And the waffle, all crispy around the edges, butter melting into the little squares. Who cares if the maple syrup is real?

It was glorious. Even more glorious than the signage at the rally. It was absolutely worth driving 8 hours each way.

We left the Waffle House the only way anyone can ever leave the Waffle House: stuffed. Special K remarked as we got into the car, "At least our farts will smell like maple syrup." I couldn't possibly take credit for a line like that, and I don't have much to follow it either.

*Style guides take note: Despite its official name Waffle House, the Waffle House is one of those rarefied institutions that should always include a definite article when referenced in conversation or writing. See also, the Wal-Mart, and the K&W.