Destination Waffle House

I’ve been a waitress at The Waffle House at the 325 Savannah Highway location in Charleston, South Carolina, for a little over ten years. I took this job after my son Danny was born because they work around my schedule. I need flexibility as a single mom. Sure, there are other jobs, but I stay loyal to the WH. It’s grown on me. My boss. The co-workers. The customers. The food. The tips are rather good too.

I’ve always loved it here. There is something about comfort food that touches the soul. The warmth of a savory waffle feels like someone has wrapped you up in a giant hug. A hot cup of coffee with thick heavy cream instantly puts you at ease. Maybe you prefer a side of hash browns covered in onions and cheese that will surely activate all your salivary glands and satisfy each taste bud. I feel that’s why people frequent our establishment. They find solace in the house with the yellow roof.

I usually work nights. Between midnight to three a.m., there’s never a dull moment. Not that I’ve seen it myself, but I’ve heard there is a poem on the statue of liberty that states, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” I often wonder if this should be our motto at the WH.

The date is April 21, 2015, and it starts like any other shift, except a camera crew walks in shortly after midnight. Our manager pulls us aside and tells us they will be filming two men discussing the food. No one knows them, and I just assume it’s a slow day on the news cycle, and they’re trying to drum up local business. All the employees sign a waiver that we might, a big might, be on TV, and then we all go on about our night. It’s business as usual with the bar crowd, the lone trucker passing through, the occasional patron on a road trip. Around 1 am they set up the camera. A lady says, “We need to mic’ you up, gentlemen.” She places tiny microphones on two men’s shirts as they sit at the counter side by side. They’re dressed casually and look to be in their late forties or early fifties. One has salt and pepper hair, and one has a thick dark beard. The manager asks me to be their waitress because I have the most experience. I am happy to do so, but for some reason, my nerves get the best of me as I approach them. Why are my hands sweating?

I greet the gentlemen, and they are so polite. One asks me my name, and I reply, “Leti.” The man with the salt and pepper hair says, “People call me Tony, and this here is Sean.” I reach for my pen and pad and realize I don’t have it. I must have a worried look on my face because Tony ask, “Everything okay?” I reply, “Yes, Sir, everything's fine. I just need to find my order pad.” Tony whips out a tiny little back book and hands it over. The little book’s leather binding is so smooth, so elegant. It has a soft, buttery feel. The sweet scent of slightly worn leather overpowers the kitchen smell for a moment. The little black book is a beauty. I thank him.

Tony and Sean mull over the selections much like a pair that’s never seen the menu before. There are indeed numerous ways to order your hash browns; one of the men says as much. The WH experience can be somewhat overwhelming. Ultimately, Sean is the resident expert of all things Waffle House and guides his friend on what to order. Their first request is a pecan waffle.

The restaurant is starting to get busy. The employees are in full operation mode. We do everything while we’re serving you. We place the orders, assist the cooks, clean the tables, wash the dishes, refill your drinks and attend to your needs, and then settle your bill. You may have never noticed, and that’s okay because we want you to feel calm in the wake of all the chaos. We want you to drown out the noise and hear our very own Waffle House music selection while you bask in the glory of eggs, ham, and buttery toast. When you have an efficient crew of a Waffle House staff, we’re like a well-oiled machine that keeps on churning.

Between cleaning and assisting the cook, I check in on the gentlemen. The two discuss the food like they’re sitting at a restaurant with white tablecloths and reviewing the finest cuisine in town. I think I even hear the bearded gentleman say the Waffle House inspired him to want to be a chef. That’s something.

Tony excuses himself to use the restroom, and I take this opportunity to wash dishes. It’s about 2:30 am, and the place is still busy, but the workload is manageable. Only four more hours left in my shift, and usually, I’m a bit tired by this hour, but the excitement of the crowd and the cameras are enough to keep my adrenaline pumping.

Tony comes out of the restroom and walks over to me. I ask him if he needs a refill or wants to order something more, and he says, “Oh, no. I want to know more about you.” I look at him questioningly. But he insists. He wants to know my story. I give him the bullet points. Grew up in South Carolina. Graduated high school. Got pregnant. A working single mom. I wish there were more adventures to tell, but that’s the highlight reel. He is the perfect audience. He seems genuinely intrigued, and it surprises me. He doesn’t judge. He doesn’t feel sorry for me. He just listens. He listens so intently, and I feel like someone is hearing me for the first time in a long time. It’s nice. He thanks me and takes his seat. They are now at the end of their time at the Waffle House. He seems to be somewhat of a local celebrity because a few people recognize him and ask to take pictures with him. He obliges and seems happy about it. Someone from the crew settles their bill.

The camera crew breaks down their equipment, and Sean stands off to the side. He talks and laughs with one of the patrons. Tony comes up to me and hands me a check, and thanks me for the service. I don’t want to look at the check because that would seem rude. Tony thanks me immensely for my service and tells me that it’s strong women like me that inspire him to do what he does. He is eternally grateful for his experience at the Waffle House and tells me he will never forget the first time he had the pleasure of visiting this establishment. #411 will have a special place in his heart from now on. I shake his hand, thank him, and tell him he is always welcome, and please come back anytime.

I went on about my shift like usual. Cleaning, setting up, and tending to the few customers that stroll in. But by the end of my shift, I am properly tired. The adrenaline has worn off, and I am ready for some sleep. I arrive home in time to see Danny off for school. I’m so proud of him. He sets his alarm, takes a shower, and packs his lunch. Most days, I am waiting for him with some Waffle House breakfast. He loves two scrambled eggs and a piece of toast. Occasionally, he’ll have a waffle.

He finishes his breakfast, and I give him a kiss good-bye before he rushes off to catch the school bus. I peel off my uniform and take that all-rewarding warm shower. It feels so good to lather up with soap and wash my hair, and I feel so clean as I wash the grease away.

I slip into my pajamas, climb into bed, and wind down with a little television. I turn on the TV, and flip through the channels. Low and behold, I see Tony. I sit-up in bed and look closer because I can’t believe it. He is on a boat in Vietnam. How the heck does he go from being on a show in Vietnam to eating at the Waffle House in South Carolina? His full name is Anthony Bourdain, and the name of his show is Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations. Wow, what a life. What a man. I’m slightly embarrassed that I thought he was a local reporter. I cannot keep my eyes open any longer, so I drift off to sleep.

I wake up, and it’s time for another day of work. I put on a clean uniform and empty my pockets from my last shift. There’s that little black book, along with about ten dollars in ones, and that check Tony gave me. I had forgotten all about it. I open it up, and it’s a sum of twenty thousand dollars! My heart beats rapidly, and my ears start to ring. I feel a little faint. It’s beyond any sum of money I’ve had all at once. I’m stunned, and it takes my breath away.

I immediately deposit the check at my local bank, shaking as I hand the check over to the bank teller. I think about what I will do with this blessing. In the following days, I pay off my $2,500 credit card debt. I put another thousand aside for any future emergencies. I fix an oil leak in my car and purchase that new set of tires I desperately need. I open up a 529 college savings plan for Danny’s college fund. I heard that’s how rich people pay for school, and now that I have this money, I thought, why not me? I put the rest away in a savings account. I’ll save a bit more and maybe put a down payment on a tiny single-family home. This money is such a blessing in my life. I thank God, the universe, whoever, for putting me in that Waffle House the same day as Anthony Bourdain. I scour the internet and find an email address to send a thank you letter. I hope Mr. Bourdain receives it.

A few years later, I did buy that house. A small cottage in a nice neighborhood and Danny is so proud to be out of that apartment and in a proper home. I love decorating and so happy to have a place to call my own. Some three years later, on June 9, 2018, I heard that Mr. Bourdain had taken his own life, and my heart sank. I never felt so hurt by the loss of someone I barely knew. It hurt me to think that perhaps that very day in the Waffle House, he was silently suffering. He was smiling, laughing, and kind, but deep down inside, he was in pain, and I can only hope at that very moment the experience at the Waffle House gave him a small sliver of joy. I don’t want to write too much more about it. It makes me too sad. I binged watched every episode of Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations. I hope he knew how much joy he brought into people’s lives. He knew how to communicate with people, but more importantly, he knew how to connect with people. Through food, love, and understanding. Such a gift. Thank you, Mr. Bourdain, for changing my life and changing the lives of so many all over the world.