Denny's

6441 South Lindbergh
St. Louis, Mo.
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Oddly enough, we hadn't been to Denny's in three years. This surprised me a little when I looked it up. It seemed more familiar. But some places are like that. Denny's has been around since 1953, originally as Danny's Donuts, changing its name to Denny's in 1959.Their 'Grand Slam' breakfast has been on the menu since 1977. Not many non-fast food franchises carry a menu item that long.
Maybe that's why it seems familiar, they've changed a little over time, but they are also still very much the same.
Of course they offer much, much more than their famous breakfasts, but I usually associate it with bacon, eggs, sausage, etc. I looked on the menu and found a 'Fish and Chips' plate, but I knew better. It might actually be good, but why risk it?
Angel had picked it because she was jonesing for French Toast and hash browns. Adam and I did not argue.
The Place:

At a very busy section of south Lindbergh, just across from a huge mall. Lots of shoppers whizzing by. This section of road is near the I-270 and I-255 junctions and thus, is twisted, wide, busy and a bit confusing. Angel was second guessing her exit immediately. Not that there's a wrong way to turn, you're never very far off, but with so many major routes intersecting, one could easily find themselves in an infinite loop.
I would have just gone up Highway 21/Tesson Ferry, then south on Lindbergh, I'm a right-angle kind of guy. Angel wanted to trim the corners. She was never lost, but did end up in the wrong lanes a couple of times.
It's a typical Interstate-like Denny's, the tall, familiar sign makes it easy to spot. Inside it is subdued, darker carpets and walls. Lots of tables and booths, the kitchen line open to public viewing. We were seated in a booth near the food line.
Sheree greeted us and asked about drinks and handed out the menus. Since I'd read my earlier review of the place, I ordered coffee rather than tea.
Angel ordered something called Caramel Coffee, which sounded sickening to me. Adam asked for an iced coffee, also awful sounding.
The Food:
The menus are very large, very colorful and have pictures of just about everything. This makes the menus unwieldy, but it is iconic. You get these massive billboard menus at Denny's, its always been that way.
I considered several things but always came back to the breakfast page. The aroma of the place is of smoky breakfast meats and syrup. I don't care for the syrup stench, you can tell this by the fact that I just referred to it as a stench. It's a long story, one you can find here, under the section 'I Digress'.
Sheree came back and set three glasses on the table. "Don't get excited, it's just the water." She said. I took that as a cue. "Oh boy, the water's here, the water's here!" I shouted.
Sheree gave me a matronly glare. So did Angel.
I had sized up Sheree immediately. She's been serving tables a long, long time, I could tell just by seeing her fly from table to table, multi-tasking with a seasoned pro's efficiency and demeanor. I knew she'd been fielding smart-ass attitude for her entire career. I also knew she could handle it. These were our roles. The seasoned waitress versus the snarky, less-funny-than-he-thinks, middle aged guy. It's a play as old as diners themselves.
She took off again, promising to return.

Caramel Coffee

She was very busy. Several times I heard the younger, less experienced crew members call her name for advice or guidance. I knew we were in good hands.
She came back with our drinks and flipped open her order pad.
Angel started with Chicken Fired Steak, 2 eggs, hash browns and plain white toast.

I struggled because I  couldn't find the combination I was wanting. "Can I get French toast with a Grand Slam?" I asked. Sheree wrinkled her face. "There's a French toast menu that you can add sides to." She said. I flipped to the full page 'Build your own French Toast' plate page. I let out a frustrated sigh. "That's really complicated. How about I tell you what I really want and you can tell me what it is that I want to order."
She frowned a little, in that matronly way.
"Two eggs, bacon, hash browns and French toast." I told her.
"I can do that." she said confidently. She scribbled something down.
Adam asked for a 'Grand Slamwich', breakfast on bread, with some hash browns.

Iced Coffee

As she was folding her book, Angel spoke up. "Oh, and we'd like some of the Pancake Poppers too!"
"The Pancake Puppies?" Sheree replied. "Yeah, that's it."
These are what they sound like, golf ball sized and shaped pancakes, deep fried. Like pancake Hush puppies, thus, 'Pancake Puppies.'
The place was quite busy, I knew it would be several minutes before the food arrived. I spent the time productively though, using the free WiFi to download another version of Angry Birds on my tablet. Angel and Adam goofed off with their devices too. We had to, otherwise conversation might have taken place. Nothing good ever comes from casual conversation amongst family members.
In the meantime, someone refilled my coffee, Sheree, maybe, I wasn't really paying attention.

The food did arrive and it looked great, even better than the pictures.
Mine arrived on three plates, which I quickly reduced  to two by scraping the hash browns onto the egg and bacon plate. I was a little concerned about the French toast, I'd neglected to tell Sheree to hold the powdered sugar. There wasn't a whole lot, but as I've said a thousand times before on these hallowed pages, I've weakened my tolerance of sugar over the past couple of years. I can usually handle it as a fractional part of something, like in baked beans, barbecue sauce, sesame chicken, but as a frivolous condiment, not so much. I flipped the Texas-style toast over and tapped most of it off. The resulting pile made up about a teaspoon and there was still a little left on the bread, but it was better than nothing.
Staring at the little pile of powder,  I formed a rock-solid comedic idea. Using my butter knife, I scooted the powder into a straight line, unwrapped my straw, but before I could even get the straw to my nose, Adam figured it out. "Stop it, just don't." He chided. He doesn't appreciate true comic genius.

Grand Slamwich

His Slamwich looked huge. Huge and delicious! Two eggs, and a generous variety of breakfast meat on toasted and buttered potato bread. Yeah, a 1320 calorie sandwich. Add the hash browns and you have 1500+ luscious, delicious calories.
No one ever said this stuff was 'health food'.
Angel's CF Steak came with her requested add-on, extra gravy. To Angel, gravy is it's own elite food group. She doesn't have it very often, honestly, but when she does, she likes a lot of it.

CF Steak, extra gravy.

She also likes her eggs scrambled. I do sometimes, but not when I go to a place with a mastery of egg-making. I prefer mine over-medium. Places like Denny's, Huddle House, Waffle House, and IHOP pride themselves on their egg-making. I rarely get a bad egg at any of these.
She glopped her gravy onto her plate, swirling everything into it. The toast, she said, was a bit too dry, but everything else was great. White toast, dry? (insert 'DUH!' here')

Pancake Poppers, er, Puppies.

Something was missing though. "Where's the pancake poppers?" She asked us. Sure enough they hadn't been delivered. Sheree came by after a few minutes and we mentioned it. She sighed and frowned. "I'll check." She said and dashed off as if on a Holy mission. I had the feeling someone was about to face-plant the grill. She came back and apologized, then a few minutes later brought out the plate, they were fresh out of the fryer. She also delivered two ramekins of syrup and sat one down right in front of me.
She apparently hadn't seen the memo. Seeing my eyes bug out, Angel snatched up the little bowl and stuck it on the far side of the table, saving the entire joint the ravages of a violent and noisy panic fit.
You think I'm exaggerating. I'm not (much). The smell of syrup touches off the exact same gag reflex in me as a rotting, split-open skunk on a hot day.  I'm told this is not a common reaction, though I do not understand that. I suppose It's a good thing I'm not Canadian.
Summary:
The food was mostly very, very good. There was Angel's dry toast, and Adam said his sandwich was great, but a bit too big. The biggest, and only real 'fail'' was the Pancake Puppies. I recognized it immediately. I only had one, but could tell there was something not quite right. It tasted, familiar, not pancake familiar but something else. Then it occurred to me what my mind was telling me I was eating.  "Funnel Cake!" I shouted quietly and without passion. "That's it exactly." Adam replied.
Not that there's anything wrong with funnel cake, as long as you're at a county fair where you expect to go home with a queasy, greasy feeling in your gullet. This happens when you inexplicably yet consciously order something you know has been cooked in thrice burnt, five day old oil by vagabonds, hobos, thieves and one-armed scalawags.  Angel agreed. The taste was exactly that of deep fried sugar in old grease.
Everything else though, was exceptional. My toast was grilled well and soft  in the middle. It still managed to sop up its share of egg yolk. The hash browns, we all agreed, were the crispiest we've ever had, perfect. And the service? Sheree was a real peach. Professional, efficient and solid. Sure the Puppies were late, but they weren't really very good, I'm not sure any of that was on Sheree though. She took very good care of us and didn't react rudely or violently at my poking at her. She had a good sense of humor and plenty of patience. She should of course, be granted an immediate and generous raise, as well as a good parking spot.
The tab came in at around thirty three bucks, not bad for a delicious, sating meal.
On the way home we were discussing the meal.
"I wish the Pancake Poppers had been better." Angel told us.
"Puppies, Pancake Puppies." Adam corrected her.
"I don't know why I can't remember that." She replied.
"Let's see, you are a dog trainer, boarder and rescuer. Yet somehow, the word 'puppies' eludes you." I commented.
"That is weird." Adam added.
"It has to be Freudian, or maybe even Pavlovian." I summarized.

Waffle House

Store # 1163
Festus, Mo.

Before we get started, I would like to extend a sad farewell to a beloved local eatery. Last week Bobby Munzert’s closed.

We always liked Bobby’s, though our last visit had some issues. The steaks were first class and the location was convenient. I’m really going to miss the German fries.

I don’t have the inside scoop on why it shut down, but it will be missed. Perhaps it was a little pricy for this small burg. It always seemed to be busy, but the economy is what it is, if that was the problem.

Restaurants come and go, it’s quite common in the business. Customers can be fickle and the slightest infraction can turn diners away forever. There’s a lot of competition for people looking for something to eat, home cooking included and it’s a seriously tough business.

So long Bobby, and thanks for the many excellent meals!

On Saturday, Angel was suffering medicine induced nausea. She’d had surgery on her elbow and wrist earlier in the week. Her arm was taped up and braced into a semi-permanent bend. She’s fine, recovering nicely, as long as she lays off the pain killers. It’s hilarious though. Any time she moves her arm out of the way of something her hand pops up into the air like an eager third grader that knows the answer. So for a few days now every time she does it I say “Yes, Angel, you have a question?”  It was gut splitting funny the first twenty or so times, and only gets funnier as time goes by.

Anyway we deferred this week’s outing to Sunday. She’d stated she wanted breakfast this week, and was bound and determined to see it through when she was not nauseous. So Saturday night we just grabbed some chicken strips from Hardee’s for her while the boy and I had burgers. It didn’t seem all that good though and Angel summed up the reason. “When you’re really wanting breakfast, nothing else will do.”

Sunday she was feeling better so we didn’t waste a moment. As soon as the dogs were fed and tucked away we hopped into the family truckster and hit the road for Festus. She drove, as she always does. It was just funnier this time watching her negotiate the big SUV with only one arm.  Parking was a real hoot.

At one point as she was adjusting her seatbelt, from the back Adam said “Yes, mom, you have a question?”  We laughed and laughed. . .

Mine!

The Place:

               A brightly lit, welcoming place above the interstate ramp. I think all Waffle Houses are on interstate ramps, though I could be wrong.  The template for WH is old-school diner. A long bar, a few booths, tight seating. From the bar you see it all. There’s no cooking behind walls, it’s all right there bare, naked raw, right in front of you. You order a couple of eggs you see them come out of the basket, get expertly cracked, and competently tended. You can watch the excess batter ooze out of the waffle irons as your order is made. It’s basic, quick and delicious.

We sat at a booth near the middle. There’s a smoking section and a non smoking section, though the distinction in the small place is impossible to determine. There are no dividers or special fans that  I could see. Most times this sort of thing bothers  me, but here the odor helped mask the sickly sweet syrup aroma. Maple syrup is my Kryptonite. I get sickly symptoms from the mere smell of it. It’s a long story that I’ve told before. I won’t repeat it here.

The place was buzzing, three quarters full early on a cold Sunday evening. Somewhere in this great nation powerful football men were facing off for a championship of some sort, but not here. No music, no TV’s no rolling news feed. There was a credit card ready juke box device, but no one was feeding it so it sat silent, sulking perhaps, the entire time we were there.

The only noise was the calling of orders and the happy chatter between the staff and the regulars. There seemed to be several regulars. Mostly middle age bearded men in work-wear coveralls or cammies or sweatshirts and jeans. They teased with the young female staffers, almost flirtatious, as if they actually had a shot. The girls, and I don’t mean that in a derogatory way, just a reflection of their relative age, played along like troopers. All harmless banter. I know this because my lovely and beloved daughter worked in a Waffle House as a teenager and quickly learned to banter and flirt with the best of them. She got it, these girls got it, it’s all part of the play.

We were attended and welcomed by Nicki and the trainee Jamie. Nicki was a seasoned pro despite her youth. Jamie looked eager and attentive and took on some of the menial tasks crucial to the operation of an eatery with pride.

They handed us the colorful, place mat-like laminated menus. They asked about drinks. Even though it was Sunday I was giddy. Monday was a work holiday for me so I didn’t have to get up on Monday. Any week you don’t have to get up on Monday morning is a good week, worthy of minor celebration. What it meant, why I was giddy, was that I could have coffee with my meal.

I used to drink coffee all day every day. Then old age set in and it started keeping me awake at night. Recently I’ve cut back a lot. I usually have no more than two cups a day, often less. This also means I will not pour nor accept anything less than good quality coffee. I’m not going to drink bitter, industrial swill if all I get is a very little. WH’s coffee is not gourmet, but it is always fresh.

The Heraldic Banner of George Calvert,
1st Baron Baltimore, on a license plate.

Coke and Diet Coke for Adam and Angel, but I got a steamy mug of fresh Joe.  I liked the thick, heavy mug. I said as much asking Angel if they sold the cups. She thought so, but wasn’t sure. Something about the contour of the cup seemed personal and not so mass-produced. The logo was the sell though. Black, Gold (yellow) red and white. It’s a color combination that I find attractive. I know this because it is the same color scheme as Maryland’s flag, which I consider to be one of the prettiest state flags.  I  was always proud of my Maryland license plates because they bore those colors. But I digress.

The Food:

If there were no penalty against it, monetary or nutritional, we’d just tell them to start bringing us plate loads of everything on the menu. Well, except for maybe the grits. It’s hard to choose a meal at WH. It’s like choosing a dog at the rescue kennel, you simply want them all.

I knew I wanted hash browns, they do the shredded tater perfectly at WH. Other than that I was willing to take just about anything and everything else. Adam and Angel were of the same mind.

It took us a few minutes, almost an entire cup of coffee’s amount of time to come up with a satisfactory combination.

Angel chose the hash browns with every available option except for peppers and chili. She added bacon and scrambled eggs and asked for raisin bread as her choice of toast. Adam had the All Star, a little of everything, replacing the grits with hash browns and having his eggs scrambled and a side of white toast. The All Star also included a world-famous waffle. When he asked for the grits/hash brown substitution Nicki exclaimed “Certainly!” as if he’d just won a prize.

“Not a fan of grits?” I asked her. She paused, Jamie panicked.  Nicki, I said she was a pro, came back. “Between the two I personally prefer hash browns to grits.”

“So what you are saying is that the grits here aren’t any good?” I suggested.

Jamie giggled, Nicki flushed.

“No, no, in fact the grits here are very good, I just prefer hash browns myself, it’s a texture thing.”

“So the texture of the grits here is disgusting?”

This went on for a while.

I ordered hash browns, smothered (onions), covered, (cheese) with only a little country (gravy.) I added bacon and eggs, over-medium and wheat toast. She wrote this up without a pause. I heard the order called, the grill master acknowledged.

In only a few minutes the food arrived, on too many plates for the small table. Nicki pushed all the bacon into one plate to save room. “Three slices each, I don’t want to see you guys fighting over it.” She instructed.

I asked about the cups, sure enough they sold them. “We’ve got three different kinds, and one we call the mother of all mugs. I’ll show them to you if you like.” I returned a ‘yes’ to that. Then we dug in.

My cup was topped off a couple of times, steamy, hot, fresh.

The food was all perfect, flawless. The bacon was thick and crispy, the eggs were picture-perfect, the hash browns crispy on the top and edges. Sure enough they’d given me half the gravy that Angel had, exactly what I wanted.

There was little conversation as we tore thought the dishes, sopping up and moaning ‘Mmm’s” almost caveman-like in raw, carnivorous delight.

Nicki dropped off the tab, and noticed Angel’s arm. “What happened?” She asked familiarly. “She had it coming.” I replied.

They discussed nerves and pains and other quease-inducing things for a moment. We’d sopped up every bit and  I decided to ask again about the mugs.

“You were going to show me your cups?” I asked.

Her face wrinkled up. “It sounds kind of strange when you say it that way.”  She brought them and I decided the one in my hand , though not the cheapest at five bucks, was the style I wanted.

“Do you want the one you have or one in a box?”

I looked down at the cup. “This one’s dirty, I think its been used.”

“I can get you a new one hon’.”

“I’m not your ‘hon’.”

She got it, that I was just funning her along. “I can get you a fresh one if you want.” She insisted.

“No, that’s okay, I like this one, it already has coffee in it.”

Summary:

In the ritual of going around the table for thoughts, comments and opinions, the clan of introverts that is my family offered up very little, but what they did say said it all.

Angel : “Yum!”

Adam : “I concur.”

I distracted them with thoughts of my own, how the menu was simple, the dishes simple, but simple food is very hard to do perfectly, consistently.  Finally Angel opened up:

“Just like I always wished my mom could make it.” She yelled at me when I wrote that down, so I promised not to publish it. I lied.

The bottom line is this. Waffle House, this one and every other one we’ve been to nails it, every time. Sure the recipes are not complex, but when you order your egg ‘over medium’ and ask for just a little gravy, you get exactly that.

The bill came in at thirty six dollars, including the coffee cup. Not bad at all since most of our orders were a-la-carte.

Later that evening I was on the phone with my younger brother Jeff. As soon as I mentioned Waffle House he got as excited and animated as I’ve ever seen or heard him. Jeff knows food, he makes the best pizza, from scratch, that I’ve ever had. That’s not by accident, he worked at it, he tried this and that and this and that until every component was exactly as he wanted it. He also smokes meat that melts in your mouth and just about everything he cooks is guarantied to be near perfect. He’s a state certified master gardener and works at a blueberry(etc.) farm so he knows his produce. He doesn’t mince words either. He’s not going to say he likes something, ever, unless he really means it. He is no one’s yes-man.

“If there is a restaurant on this planet that is my favorite, it’s Waffle House. It don’t matter if you’re in the one in Amarillo, Little Rock, Hopkinsville, Oak Grove or even Albuquerque.”

I knew this about him. He used to travel a lot more than he does now. He lived in El Paso for quite a while before taking on the yeoman’s task of being the dutiful filial son and moving into a house in  Kentucky, a mere block from our saintly yet aging parents. He would often comment that the best food on the road, any road, could be found right there under the yellow and black sign, in a simple diner setting, where the smell of syrup masks the smell of the smoke and the old farts tease and flirt with the young ladies that work there.