Waffle House is America.
Not the version we sell on post cards,
the real one.
the raw one.
The one that limps,
Laughs,
Fights,
Forgives,
And keeps the grill hot.
Through it all.
It is poetry.
It is art.
It's everything this country is meant to be:
Messy, soulful, and built for anyone that enters the door.
Because inside that yellow box by the interstate
there are no velvet ropes,
no VIP section,
and nobody is any better than anyone else.
In one booth could be a millionaire is a white pressed button-down
Who's on the phone with his divorce attorney.
In the next, a man counting his ruffled-up dollar bills
So he could buy a cup of coffee and a single scrambled egg.
In another, two teenagers on their first date
Sharing a laugh over a stack of chocolate-chip waffles.
And in the back corner is a woman crying softly into her hash browns
As her entire world splits apart.
The cook's name might be Rico, or Janice, but they've worked here for 16 years, survived 14 fistfights, and fought through 3 hurricanes.
Your server refers to you as honey
While she smokes a Newport in the alley out back
And there's a jukebox in the corner
That'll only plays songs that make you feel like the love of your life just left.
The A/C never works,
the coffee tastes like burnt ambition,
and the menus have the same stains as they did in your childhood.
And somehow in the midst of all that dysfunction,
there's peace.
I've been to Waffle House more times than I can count.
After good nights,
After bad ones,
After breakups,
After funerals,
At 3 P.M. with my friends,
And at 3 A.M. with my demons.
There have been times I haven't even known what I believed in.
But I always believed in Waffle House.
I believed in those yellow tiles.
The cracked seats.
That ancient jukebox.
And that first bite of my hotcake that tastes like stability and chaos.
Waffle House is the last American sanctuary.
It's the great equalizer for all.
It doesn't care who you voted for,
How much you make,
Where you're from,
Or how broken you feel that night.
It just asks, "How do you want your eggs."
And that right there, is gospel anyone can get behind.
Because when everything feels like it's unraveling,
Waffle House stays open.
When your relationships fall apart,
Waffle House stays open.
When you fall apart,
Waffle House stays open.
It's not just a restaurant.
It's a time machine,
A therapy session,
A last resort,
A first date,
A second chance,
And a middle-of-the-night reminder
That you've made it this far,
And maybe. Just maybe. You will make it a little further.
When the streets are empty and you're phone's gone quiet.
When every friend and family member is asleep.
When every bar is closed.
When that person that you desperately want to respond doesn't,
Waffle House does.
It won't need a reservation, and it won't ask questions.
It just pours the coffee, drops the plate,
And lets you exist exactly as you are.
The final light when everything else has gone out.
The flicker in the fog.
The open door at the end of the night.
The last neon moon of America,
That I pray never sets.
-Michael Bowman
