CARLTON FLETCHER: Spreading a little love during a ‘Waffle House experience’

“If I don’t love you, grits ain’t groceries, eggs ain’t poultry and Mona Lisa was a man.”

— Wet Willie

If you’re from the South — and I don’t mean native-born, I mean anyone who’s lived in this region for more than a few days — you have eaten at a Waffle House.

And, unless you’re a rarity, you’ve had a “Waffle House experience.” It may have been an encounter with an angry or even amorous waitress; watching a drunk patron leave his hash browns smothered, covered and hurled on the floor; enduring 11 consecutive run-throughs of “The Waffle House Song” that some wit played on the juke box (usually just before leaving), or maybe you even had a close Waffle House encounter with a (semi?)-celebrity like Kid Rock.

I’ve had any number of such experiences over my lifetime, but my most recent one was one of those things that just kinda seems to happen at the restaurant chain. (It’s one of the byproducts of being open 24/7 and having relatively cheap food. Plus, everyone loves Waffle House food after midnight … it’s encoded on our DNA.)

It happened in Duluth after the Jackson Browne/Paul Simon concert at the Gas South Arena. (And, no, the arena is not named in honor of one of the results of Waffle House food.) The show was over around 11, there was the long walk to the car (Note to self: Next time, use the parking garage.), and then a straight drive into the city proper. You might think — I did — that one of the Atlanta ‘burbs would be bustling with activity, and I’m sure it was. Just not where Tara and I were staying.

There was, in fact, only two businesses open in the vicinity: a really nice gas ‘n’ sip and the Waffle House.

Not having eaten, we decided for a little late-night chow. When we walked in the door, I knew instinctively it was going to be an adventure. All but two seats at the counter were filled or roped off, and there were only two people working. Not two waitresses or two cooks. Two people.

We took the seats at the bar, and in less than 10 minutes about 15 more people walked in, including a group of drunks that featured, of course, the drunk couple. You know the type: They believed they should be served first, and they were loud, and they were obnoxious. When the guy, who looked as soft as butter but was drunk enough to show off his manliness let go a couple of F-bombs, I turned and looked at him. (NOTE: I am in no way a bad-ass, but I hate when drunk people are such jerks in front of patrons that include women and children. I was just looking at the guy.)

His friends evidently saw me look his way because they started telling him to shut up. He, of course, proclaimed that he wasn’t hurting anyone and didn’t say anything too bad, but he sat down and lowered his volume a few decibels at least.

Meanwhile, the one cook and the one waitress were trying to keep everyone happy, and, truthfully, nobody really complained. But it was frustrating to watch things like another drunk jerk who kept calling the waitress over to go over his bill and even asking her for a written, itemized accounting. Then the scumbag walked out without leaving a tip.

We ordered, sat patiently (well, for me) and finally got our food. My grits weren’t just lumpy; they were nothing but globs that no amount of salt, pepper and butter could fix. But I was less hungry than I was sorry for the two employees, so I didn’t complain.

We ate what we could of the food (minus the grits) and decided we’d had enough of a Waffle House experience for the night. I called the harried cook over, gave her and the waitress each a $10 bill, thanked them for their patience and left. Two things: Their manager should be strung up and quartered for scheduling only two employees on a concert night at the only nearby food place that’s open. And I hope that in some small way our little gift helped make these two ladies’ lousy evening at least a little bit better.