A Love Letter to Waffle House

Reflections from a devotee

A rebroadcast from last year, a deep cut buried in the the archive.

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I was almost shot at Waffle House. A few years ago, someone decided it would be a blast (pun intended) to drive down the street and shoot out random windows. My friend and I were sitting under one of these unfortunate glass targets. We heard a loud thud, a whooshing sound. We ducked toward the floor and watched the web of glass expand and then, soon after, cascade onto the table.

Everyone stopped for a moment. Then, the cooks continued to scrabble eggs. One employee coolly remarked that “they done shot out the window.” Business as usual. So, I paid my bill, tipped our waitress, and left with a new answer to the perennial ice-breaker: tell me something interesting about yourself.  

I write this, perhaps surprisingly, in way of a love letter. At any Waffle House, you will find a microcosm of America. You will find the greasy, sincere, unexpected, existential beauty of it all. Waffle House is a study of the non-identical and the universal.

Stay with me. 

One might protest that every Waffle House is identical. After all, they all look the same. They smell the same. Occasionally, an employee will wear a special camo version of the logo, but the booths and wallpaper are all familiar; the batter, potatoes, and eggs are likewise generic. The ubiquity of a Waffle House appears uncontested.

But these are surface similarities, and appearances are deceptive. Each Waffle House is wildly non-identical. First, the employees are uniquely themselves, undeniably. I am stunned at the workers, stunned by how comfortable they are with themselves and customers. I’ve watched servers crack jokes, sit down in the booth, and even talk philosophy while smashing hashbrowns. Say what you will of corporate control, but in the actual store, there is little question of ownership. The restaurant is theirs, a small dominion. Going into a Waffle House is like being a guest in a private bivouac.

Furthermore, each visit is always part of a broader non-identical story. Waffle House is a pit-stop. I’ve stopped in Oklahoma City on the road to California. I’ve shared late-night waffles in Virginia with my grandfather, brother, and father. I’ve sat at those laminate tables on Saturday morning before horse races and Friday night before going home. I’ve even eaten Waffle House while reading Being and Time and waiting for our car at the mechanic (I imagine that only few people have read Heidegger in a such a setting. I would recommend). Waffle House is never the full stop. It’s always the comma. 

Finally, each visit has its own personality. This often arises from the patrons that move around you. Regulars shuffle in. Weary travelers look despondently at their cheese omelets. Somebody laughs coarsely and a little too loudly. You listen to lives unfold over coffee and thin packets of sugar. Entering a Waffle House is like entering a novel.  

Just the other day I overheard two older businessmen, reminiscing in the booth behind me. They hadn’t seen each other in years. I heard about old triumphs, million dollar mergers, and former colleagues. These colleagues had delightful names like Haggard and Linwood. I heard about their gallant fights against the HOA and a wide swath of bureaucratic “bastards.” Each statement was punctuated with colloquial charm. Although it’s impossible to artificially replicate these yarns, one can capture the echo. A resonate example: they mentioned a devious woman for whom “truth is her second or third language.”

In between bites of toast and these anecdotes, I graded a few papers. They left. I paid my bill and walked home.

I hate to rip off Heraclitus, especially in such a vulgar manner, but it’s true. No one goes to the same Waffle House twice. You are different. The place is different.

And so, we go because we are hungry. We go for a moment of repose and to face the simplicity of the All-Star Special. And from here, we see the world differently. We touch it a little more closely, even if the touch leaves the residue of greasy potatoes and the sticky kiss of a waffle.

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