Having a Saturday off is a rare treat for me. Having a Saturday off and not being hungover is an even rarer treat. Add in that my roommate was also not hungover makes it ideal conditions for Saturday morning brunch.

We decide on a place, and look it up on Google. Google tells me that the time we are going is “typically not too busy” with a wait time of less than 15 minutes. Awesome! We drive there, and by the looks of the parking lot, Google has lied to me. We stop in the parking lot for a second, look at each other, and both agree. “Fuck it, let’s go to Waffle House.”

I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I’ve ever been to a Waffle House when the sun was out. I was excited to see what would be different from all my other experiences there that I don’t remember all that well.

We arrive at Waffle House, after I half jokingly say we should go to Olive Garden because their parking lot is empty at 11am on a Saturday. Who’da thunk? The Waffle House parking lot on the other hand, is completely packed. Except for one small parking space where my roommate manages to fit in his ’94 Ford F-150. As we’re walking to the door, I see a large family waiting outside. Are they coming or going? I hope they’re going. Those booths only fit four people comfortably. They’re coming. They walk in right before us and take the only available booth. That’s fine. It gives me time to look through the Waffle House jukebox.

I got kind of lost searching through the “Favorites” list and trying to decide if I really wanted to torture these people with Macy Gray or Smash Mouth. I become distracted when I see out of the corner of my eye a young boy, probably about 3 or 4, standing next to me trying to see what I was doing. I said “hey, man” and his mother shouts for him to come back to the table.

I’m tired of looking through the jukebox and look over to my roommate who is looking at his phone. More people have come in since we got there. Does that mean people have also left? Did we miss our opportunity at a getting a table? I hear the hostess announce there’s a booth available in the corner and points to a family (who got there after us) to come take it. The mom of the family says “these two young men were here before us” and lets us take the table. I thank her as we squeeze by.

I’m glad we’re sitting in a corner booth. It gives me the chance to examine the restaurant and the kind of characters that eat at Waffle House at 11am on a Saturday. They’re…normal. Mostly. There are three high school couples sitting at the bar, which is adorable to me. The booths are filled with older couples or small groups, with the exception of the 7 top that walked in before us. They’re cramped at the opposite end of the restaurant. Next to us, at the weird corner bar every Waffle House has, are three men. All ranging in age. One in his late 20s/early 30s, another in his 50s, and the last one to sit was probably in his 70s. The last one had a newspaper, the other two were sitting quietly, one doing a crossword, and the younger one looking at his phone. The man with the newspaper mentions something about football, and the three of them engage in conversation for the remainder of our visit.

The waitress comes to take our order. I order the All-Star Special. Two eggs (scrambled), hashbrowns (should have ordered grits), sausage patties, wheat toast, and a waffle. I upgraded to a chocolate chip waffle, don’t worry! To wash it all down with? None other than their homemade Cherry Coke.

When the waitress walks into the kitchen, my eyes follow her as she hands the ticket with our order on it to the expo, who is a lady probably in her early 70s, standing no taller than 5’2″, and barking orders to her army of short order cooks. This lady is an inspiration to all expediters. She take the ticket from our server, puts in at the bottom of the pile, all while reading out more orders. One fluid motion. It was beautiful. I wanted to ask if she could come to my job and train everyone how to do what she does.

I noticed the booth behind us had been empty for a while. I wondered if that family that gave us this table had decided to leave, or maybe another table emptied and they got it while I was watching the interaction in the kitchen. While that was going through my head, the booth was filled. Filled with people I’m pretty sure have never been in a Waffle House. The waitress brings them water and one of the men asks “This is purified, right?”. The waitress ignores the question, drops off the rest of the waters, and comes to tell us our order will be up shortly. I say “thanks” and let out a small laugh, nodding my head towards that table. She rolls her eyes in agreement. The table behind starts talking about the water conditions in Richmond vs. Henrico, and it moves from there to other stupid shit I didn’t even care to write down. I hated that table, but I hope they enjoyed their experience as much as I did.

The food comes and I’m on my third homemade Cherry Coke. I scarf down the sausage patties because I remembered from my last Waffle House experience, they are not good cold. Next I try to eat my eggs, but I really don’t like scrambled eggs, I don’t know why I ordered them. I butter my waffle and pour on some syrup. I dive in, and it’s a sugar rush. I’m going to hate myself later, but fuck it. I take a break from my waffle and move on to the hashbrowns. I pick at them, but again, I should have ordered grits. I eat a slice of my wheat toast, and move back onto my waffle. At this point, I’m feeling defeated. I try to eat the last quarter of my waffle but I tap out.

We’re ready to pay, and my roommate offers to pick up the check since I watched his dogs while he was out of town. Now I start to feel guilty about adding those chocolate chips to my waffle. I tell him “thank you” and walk to the bathroom while he pays. I pass the large group from before and they’re also getting ready to leave. I go to the bathroom, pee, wash my hands, and exit. (Their bathroom is clean as shit. I was surprised, but I shouldn’t have been. The whole place was so clean!).

I say “goodbye” to my little friend I met at the jukebox as his family leaves at the same time as my roommate and I do.