Christmas Eve at the Waffle House

I knew of a family that had a strange tradition of spending each Christmas Eve at the Waffle House.  I, of course, found this a bit strange; but being one not to judge something that I have no experience with, I decided I would spend an evening this holiday season there to see what might have struck this family's fancy in such a way as to develop this bizarre tradition.  And so, one evening I loaded up into the car and headed out, ready for what new surprises might be awaiting me.  Besides, I suppose there is no better way to celebrate the birth of our savior than by partaking of a meal that could actually bring us that much closer to meeting him.  

Opening the door I was immediately greeted with a cornucopia of odors- grease, cheap cleaners, cigarette smoke, and what a painful scream from the kitchen would confirm was burning flesh.  Aside from the smells and the billowing smoke, the first thing I noticed was the quaint holiday decor.  Cheap silver garland adorned the walls and in the corner stood (or leaned precariously) the saddest, limpest, most bare Christmas tree I have ever laid eyes on.  Apparently, Charlie Brown was commissioned as their holiday interior designer.  But without the strange dancing kids, and the moving monologue from Linus, it didn't have the same effect.  I was greeted at the door by a rather gruff waitress.  Her nametag indicated her name was Jo.  I at first assumed it stood for JoAnne, but upon closer inspection her musculature and facial hair led me to believe it could have just as easily been an abbreviation for Joseph.  

She curtly asked if I would like to be seated in smoking or chain smoking. Non smoking at the Waffle House, it would seem, is as taboo as white work boots before easter.  I settled into my seat and perused the menu- which featured photos for each of the items.  Since the quality of the photographs, and the appearance of the food itself was less than desirable, I was left to assume this was more out of necessity than a clever marketing gimmick- perhaps speaking to the literacy of the average Waffle House customer...or employee.  If I ran a restaurant whose food appeared as did the food in the photographs before me, I would take more of a shock and awe approach, concealing the food until it was placed on the table squarely in front of the customer.

Nevertheless, I placed my order with Jo and then, deciding I wanted the full experience, wandered over to the juke box to punch up some tunes.  It being the holidays, I was in the mood for some Christmas music.  Surprisingly, the "Hallelujah Chorus" was nowhere to be seen on the playlist.  In fact, the only Christmas song available was "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer".   So, $.25 poorer, I headed back to my table as the song kicked in.  As it reached the chorus, I noticed a man in the booth behind me tearing up.  I was taken back by this.  Granted, this is a lousy song, but to cry everytime a song comes on you don't like...well, it just seems childish.  I was preparing to address this with the man when two things hit me (well, three actually, but one was just a piece of plaster falling from the water damaged ceiling).  1. I didn't have my pepper spray and this guy could kick my ass. And 2. it was entirely possible this guy was crying because his grandmother actually was struck by a reindeer.  Feeling for the man, I remained in my seat, tearing up a bit myself- but more from the dust in the room than any emotional attachment to this guy's situation.  

As the song continued, I turned my attention to the cook who was dancing in front of the griddle with the flair and speed of an artist practicing his craft--pausing only occasionally to pick at what appeared to be a large scab on his elbow.  Calling over Jo to cancel my side order of bacon, we began to discuss our respective Christmas traditions.  We quickly reached a stalemate, however.  I refused to move from my belief that Santa rode across the sky in a tricked out Benz delivering puppies and designer handbags to all the good boys and girls.  Jo, meanwhile, held stedfast to her belief that Santa traveled from trailer to trailer by way of a big rig carrying rifles and coon dogs (perceivably to replace the ones that died from the hydrophoby) to guys and gals across the globe.  Admittedly, her theory provided for more cargo space, but I had her! "How does he cross the ocean to other continents", I asked.  Her response was flat and to the point, "His shrimp boat".  Well, at least she had thought this through before. 

Finally, the moment arrived and my food was plated and delivered to my table.  Unfortunately, it appeared just as the photo had predicted- eggs, ham, and sausage all melded into an amalgam of holiday goo.  As I moved a portion toward my mouth, I paused as a string of some of it slowly descended back toward my plate.  Sensing my hesitation, Jo quickly came over.  "Don't worry, honey.  That's just a little Christmas cheer."  It's funny how closely Christmas cheer resembles grease droppings and undercooked lard.  

I finished the meal to the best of my abilities, paid, and headed on my way.  I'm not sure what lessons I learned from my Christmas at the Waffle House.  I only know that if it filled me with Christmas Spirit, then Christmas spirit causes massive indigestion.  And as for Christmas Eve next year...despite my previous posting, I'm thinking Arby's.

Until the next post, take care!