A Waffle Wassail for Peace and Pie
“In theory, everything sounds like a good idea,” said Elisabeth with a
bit of a Jewish Brooklyn accent, about her move from Atlanta to East
Ellijay, Georgia – a small mountain community in the heart of North
Georgia’s Gilmore County. “It was probably a mistake,” she adds.

It’s Christmas Day, and the town is quiet, except for the Conoco
Parkway Food Mart, BP, Amoco and the Waffle House. The only other sign
of life is at North Georgia Tattoos and Body Piercing across the street
from the Conoco – a neon “open” sign flashes in the window under a
Christian fish with the sign, “got Jesus?” and an American flag.

When we stop for gas, the Conoco is completely out of bread, milk and
eggs, and for a brief moment, we fear the greatest of all fears when
traveling through the South – the ATM will be out of cash, and we won’t
be able to enjoy our traditional Waffle House Christmas dinner. But
the Gilmore County Bank does have cash in the ATM, and it spits out a
beat-up 20 – more than enough to buy dinner and desert.

A sign on the door to Unit #944 proclaims Waffle House as “America’s
Home for the Holidays”, with the restaurant being open 24 hours on
Christmas and New Year’s Day. Brad welcomes us when we walk in the
door. He’s in a festive red shirt with a green t-shirt underneath.
All the servers and cooks have changed from the traditional black and
yellow Waffle House uniform to red and green with hand-made elf hats.
The restaurant is full, and they’re cooking in every way you could
imagine. Despite the onslaught of customers since 6:30 this morning
(which at one point lined up out the door and around the building)
spirits are high and the Waffle House team is singing along to the
Christmas carols being spit out by the jukebox. The kitchen crew
slides around on the greasy floor with a synchronized finesse not
unlike figure skaters on ice.

“Is there any chance you’ll run out of food?” I ask Brad as he shows us
to a table in the corner of the restaurant.

“Nope. Just when we think we’re running out of food, they bring more
out from the back,” he says. “They’re well-stocked.”

At this Waffle House, things are different. The hash browns, a Waffle
House staple, are not referred to as hash browns. “”Them are taters,”
Elisabeth says, her Brooklyn accent heavy like gravy on her Southern
grammar. We asked if she is from the Brooklyn, and she’s corrects us –
Atlanta. But her parents were born in Brooklyn, so she chalks up her
inflection to genetics. Through our meal, the accent gets heavier with
every interaction – except when she brings beverages and manages to
spill each one. Then her accent completely disappears: “Ooo! Did I
injure anyone?”

Elisabeth explained that she’d get us anything we needed, all we had to
do was ask.

“A bourbon on the rocks,” our friend Andrew says.

“You go get it; I’ll go pour it.” It’s Christmas Day and not much is
open, so running for mixers was not really an option. Instead, Tony
had his traditional grilled cheese with tomato, our friend Mike had the
steak and eggs manager special, and Andrew and I had the Texas
Cheesesteak plate.

After dinner, Tony asks Elisabeth what kind of pie they have. Even
though she’s been on her feet since five o’clock this morning, and
she’s hoping to get out of there by 10 o’clock after a 16-hour day, she
can still recall (with the help of a few eye rolls) all the pie they
have – sans Brooklyn accent. “Apple, lemon crème, chocolate crème,
Boston crème, pumpkin, sweet potato, and we can slather and treat the
pecan pie.” Slathered and treated means buttered and grilled, which
Andrew thinks sounds like a triple by-pass on a plate.

Both Tony and Andrew celebrate Christmas with a slice of chocolate
crème pie, and we go to pay the check with a well-worn twenty-dollar
bill. We notice a banner above the grill proclaiming “Peace on Earth.”
In East Ellijay, at Unit 944, there is peace on earth. And pie with
no accent. Peace, and lots of pie. For us, that seems like the
perfect formula, and a really good idea. Especially today.

© Timothy State, December 25, 2003
tim.state@barnesplace.com

To see more photos of Christmas at Waffle House #944, direct your web
browser to:
http://homepage.mac.com/barnes_place/PhotoAlbum20.html

We've been driving around in circles here on the Cherokee Indian Reservation because when we came out of the fog blanketing the Smoky Mountains, Tony saw a sign that said "Harrah's Casino, Turn Here." Don't ask me how, his head was in his laptop the entire drive through the mountains. It's almost as if he smelled the potential winnings, telling him to perk up. "Shhh!" he says. "Listen!"

"What are we listening for?"

"Shhh! Can you hear the slots?"

It's lunchtime. Way past lunch time. I knew if we ate in the buffet, located at the back of the casino, it would be another five hours before I could get him out of there. "Damn," he says, "I should have brought my Harrah's Card," as if we expected to stumble on a casino in the mountains.

Tony was just a Marlboro away from assuming the casino pose that indicates he'll be playing for the rest of the afternoon. His feet, propped on the stool. He sits, both hands on the machine, his shoulders relaxed. His replacement Harrah's Card (they had him in the computer from Vicksburg, Mississippi when we stopped on our Mississippi River Tour) tying him to the machine with a bungee cord. All he needed now was the Marlboro, hanging from his mouth so he could practice his yoga-like casino breathing-inhaling through the Marlboro, exhaling through the nose-channeling the chi, mustering the mojo.

It's that moment when I loose Tony. Time is no obsticle, slots costs credits, not money, and I'm left standing on the casino floor, pondering what it will cost the casino the next time they decide to reupholster all the slot stools, bored out of my mind. I recognized this moment today, and I was able to intervene, pulling Tony away from the machine before he had figured out a strategy to get a free trip to the buffet.

I was hoping to find a quaint little mountain restaurant for lunch. Maybe one with a view of the river. The most we could find was the Jernigan's Country Inn, in a strip mall, next to a motel, also in the strip mall. It was the picture of Appalachian quaint from every perspective. Oversized blow-up snowmen, a Santa and baby Jesus on the roof. We parked next to a trailer in the parking lot, which contained the public restrooms, and walked up to the door, only to discover that fast food, casinos and Waffle Houses are the only things that operate in these parts on a Sunday.

We're sitting at Waffle House Unit #1456. That's probably the most accurate way to describe our location, as I can't find the intersection we're at on our road atlas. Tony looks at the check and pulls out his wallet. "Do you have any money?" he says.

"No."

He shoots a look at me from across the table that says we're stranded. "If you hadn't gambled it all away," I pointed out.

While I sit here telling you about our two hours in Cherokee, I've sent Tony off in the Ford Escape. To find the nearest ATM.

Our unusually pleasant WH experience was shattered by a throw-down between our server, Tamika, and the cook. The cook put Tony’s Scattered, Covered, Diced and Well Done hash browns on my plate, and Tony got my Scattered, Smothered and Covered hash browns.

I thought it would be easiest to simply receive my food as it came. A principle, we have learned through the years, of maintaining peace and harmony at WH. While I don’t like Diced (tomatoes), I was going for the WH Peace Prize, however, Tony insisted that he didn’t like Smothered (onions). Tamika appropriately took them back and told Tony they would make them correctly.

That’s when all hell broke loose as Tamika explained to the cook he needed to make more Scattered, Covered, Diced and Well Done hash browns. He insisted they had been prepared properly. She insisted they were not prepared properly. Both were correct, only the wrong hash browns were placed on the wrong plates. After a throw-down, complete with yelling and screaming, and both Tamika and the cook getting in our face, the cook finally relented and recooked Tony's hash browns.

But that wasn't the end. Tamika pulled the cook into the office to yell at him about yelling at her in front of customers. The cook continued to insist that all we had to do was change our orders.

They don't have a problem building anything right on the beach in Mississippi. And at this particular Waffle House, the only thing between you and the beach is the dupster, as demonstrated in the photo above. The service was great, and food right on.

We asked our server which casino was the best one for finding the lowest table limits. Everyone working behind the counter concurred all were the same, but almost everyone in this particular WH was heading over to Boomtown after their shit ended. Of course, ever billboard in town toutes Boomtown's award-winning buffet, but everyone at the WH suggested we avoid Boomtown's buffet like the plague.

On the road to the Redneck Riviera, Diane, 14-year veteran of Waffle House provided us with attentive service. While Tony was the only one to order his hash browns extra crispy, we all managed to receive our hash browns charcoal-style. One wonders if we had requested our hash browns ‘extra-attentive’, would we have received hash browns verses barbeque briquettes.

While this particular Waffle House was uneventful to us, we’re certain the place lit up in conversation upon our departure. We were lacking day-glow hunting caps, and jumpers with forest undergrowth prints.

My Texas Cheese Steak Plate is coming back at me something violent. Violent. Oh, holy Mary, Mother of God... make it stop.