Positioned at a right angle from Regent University (where Pat "In The Name Of Jesus" Robertson answers "Bring It On" questions during tapings of "The 700 Club"), this bread-box-sized restaurant has long served breakfast to truckers and similar sorts who are greasier than the meals they ingest. Before this overcast Tuesday morning, it had been at least six years since I'd eaten one of the 'House's Frisbee-shaped creations. What follows is an account of my latest visit.
My mother and Ryan (the adorable two-year-old she watches for a sizable paycheck) picked me up on Kempsville Road as I was making not-so-labored footsteps toward the library. Although I had crunched the contents of two GRRREAT big bowls of Frosted Flakes, the tiger in me growled for something more carnivorous. McDonald's was McUsual. Shoney's seemed Shopacked. IHOP was ISKIPPED. Thus, we opted for the remaining eatery in the general vicinity serving A.M. grub.
As the three of us were seated by a toothless hag who doesn't Shower To Shower each day, I was reminded why the odor of overpricing had kept me away. $2.30 for a goddamn (sorry, Pat!) waffle? $1.90 for wafer-thin sausage patties? $1.25 for OJ in a sippy cup? Of course, since everyone in the world lights up like a chimney on Christmas morn, we had to contend with expelled tar 'n' nicotine from a two-pack-a-day long-hauler awaiting his runny eggs and toast. Mom ain't smoker-friendly in the least bit, so we switched booths in what was assumed to be a non-smoking section. Big mistake. Not only was an ashtray at every table, but there was also another lit-up scruff who had to make conversation with my mother. "Hey, he looks just like you!" "How old is your little boy?" "I'm sure he's a handful." It must be tough being the most beautiful woman in the world (Mom could easily pass for my sister. I'm guessing the majority of folks think that we're married and Ryan is our son.), but my mother has long been tired of explaining the truth to complete strangers. More often than not, she'll just play along and respond with terse replies -- "Yeah." "Two." "Yep, he is." The milky-white lies were told on this day as well.
NOYB chatter concluded, Medusa finally arrived with our orders. The amount of food placed in front of me couldn't have filled a prescription bottle, much less a big boy (sorry, Shoney's!) like myself. Mom's choice had more variety (omelet, toast, and grits), but sharing was out of the question. I've always hated eggs. Had my mother offered, I would've rather eaten the plate on which they were placed. With a little syrup, thank you. The waffle and sausages were alright, though I would've been just as happy with McD's hotcakes. Grudgingly, Mom also gave her spread a passing grade. Points were accrued for the bottomless coffee, but those were squandered with the words from our waitress ("Sorry, we only accept cash."). Hey, Waffle House -- get with the 1980's already! Then again, with the absolution of smoking in many public places, WH probably considers its attitude towards the nasty habit progressive in nature.
Six on a ten-point scale (that's a passing "D" at Tidewater Community College). $2 tip.
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