Welcome to the Waffle House

With one cranky husband despondent over his much-anticipated Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives' pick, being closed, we dejectedly pulled into the next restaurant we could find in Tucker, Georgia:

Waffle House.

One would not normally plan an entire road trip around a visit to Waffle House, especially when you consider we counted 213 of them along the way to Florida.     

But perhaps this one would be special?

We walked in at the crack of dawn to the vibrations of some ridiculously loud base blaring from a rap song set to full volume.

Joe, being less than appreciative of this particular musical art form, merely shot a Medusa-like look in the direction of the employee nearest the sound system. The music was positively deafening, and even I was surprised that nobody else had complained about it.  It was so early and the seizure-inducing base was torture. Joe's killer look, heightened by his Matthew's Cafeteria disappointment and general morning grumpiness, was all it took. Both the radio and the clerk turned immediately to stone.

Appeased, Joe glanced up from his menu to speak with our waitress. He did a double-take at the woman who, as luck would have it, sported her own giant yellow Waffle House forearm tattoo.

I started to hear the theme song from The Twilight Zone in my head right around this time.

Despite early misgivings, the food and service were fantastic. I now understand why there are 1600 Waffle Houses throughout the United States. There are also about 1600 billboards for pecans throughout the state of Georgia. I have never wanted a slice of pecan pie so badly in my life, and I hate pecans.

As we left Waffle House and Georgia behind, I thought it fitting that a familiar song played on the only non-country music station we could find:

No peace, no peace I find
Just this old, sweet song
Keeps Georgia on my mind

Indeed.