Once upon a time in Atlanta I had the most glorious meal, and certainly one that would make my top 10 or even 5 of all time. And while it was inspired and delectable, I found myself a few extra drinks in, and a little bit peckish in the way that fancy food can leave you.
As I walked from the Fourth Ward back to downtown, the warm yellow glow of the Waffle House sign invited me in like a warm hug. The denouement to this epic evening would be no disappointment.
Like most comfort food, the Waffle House waffle isn’t the greatest of all waffles, but it has a certain allure that can only be provided by a familiar factory-esque piece of cooked dough served up hot in a cookie-cutter late night diner, but it’s more than that.
Waffle House has soul. The women and men who work the counter and grill bring with them an enthusiasm that punches far beyond their pay grade. Whether in Atlanta or elsewhere, my experience at Waffle House has always been one of appreciative adoration.
This evening’s late night drunken waffle fest is no exception. I order my waffles with a side of bacon. The crew is jovial. As they cook my and the other late night patron’s orders, song breaks out behind the counter.
As I eat my second dinner, it’s like a Motown chorus as dinner entertainment. For me it’s the punctuation mark on an exceptional evening, but I get the sense that this is an average occurrence at this particular Waffle House.