Waffle House

1304 Veterans Blvd.
Festus, Mo.

On the Web
Facebook


Sure, I've reviewed Waffle House before. In my mind, a good place deserves mention and a great place deserves frequent mention.
I'll keep it short.

The Place:
West of I-55 just off Highway A. Just look for the big yellow sign.
Diner style, booths along the wall, stools at the counter. Clean, bright and seemingly always staffed by cheerful and hard working people. In this case, the crew consisted of three young folks, Kelsey, CJ and Josh.
Josh was the grill master, the ladies deftly worked the tables and counter. They all wore matching gray shirts, black pants, black apron and black caps. Our primary server was Kelsey, whose pony tail was pulled through the adjusting gap in her cap.
I cannot recall coming across a bad crew at a Waffle House. Always friendly, always busy, occasionally breaking out in song, though not too loudly. Always welcoming and sincere, always helpful. This trio was no exception.
The Food:
Me: Hash browns, smothered and covered (onions and cheese). Add some bacon, two eggs, over medium, a biscuit, and of course, coffee please.
Angel: Hash browns, smothered, covered, chunked and country. (ham, gravy) add sausage, scrambled eggs, skip the toast, with ice tea.
Adam: All American Breakfast, eggs, bacon, scrambled eggs, toast and hash browns (plain) instead of grits, with soda pop.
Yeah, we all got pretty much the same thing. But that's why we like it there, this is what we want when we go to WH, and  WH is our preferred place when we want breakfast for dinner.
The food didn't take very long, but why should it? It's a pretty simple menu. Not a lot of fancy seasonings and sauces to fuss over.
At one point, KC came out from behind the counter and poked the jukebox. This concerned me at first, I'm not much of a listener to music, especially the kind of music most people poke in a jukebox. But she impressed me with Otis Redding's 'Sittin' on the dock of the bay.' We're good.
She seemed surprised when I complimented her on her selections.
As I said, the food came in good time. I looked over at Angel's blasphemic hash brown concoction. Not that I could actually see any hash browns, they were completely covered by an epic mudslide portion of brown gravy. Angel was quite pleased though. Angel likes gravy, I might have mentioned that before. (That night, she posted on FB:"Went out for gravy tonight. Yeah there was other stuff on the plate too, but who cares when there's GRAVY on the plate.")
The real problem, for me, was the ham. I understand the gravy, but the ham corrupts the subtle purity of hash browns. It's like adding a bunch of exclamation points to a paragraph were they simply don't belong.

The last thing to arrive was Adam's waffle. They make a pretty good waffle here. Don't just take my word for it though:
"Whoa, that's good, that's good! . . . this is better than The French Laundry!" -Anthony Bourdain-
I suppose I should explain a few things about that.
I'll assume you know who Anthony Bourdain is. He's all over TV, all over the world. He's been everywhere, tried everything and isn't afraid to call a dud, a dud, he even does so quite profanely. He's worked in some of the finest restaurants in the country, top tier. Among Restaurant Magazine's Top 50 Restaurants in the World, frequently listed is The French Laundry, located in the Napa Valley in California. Bourdain himself once called that high end eatery: "The best restaurant in the world."
That was before he'd ever been to a Waffle House.
Summary:
The food, every bit of it, was great. Perfectly prepared, cleanly and promptly served.That almost goes without saying. The service was simply outstanding. Every member of that young three person crew checked on us during our visit. They all cheerfully greeted us when we arrived and all three wished us a good evening when we left. My coffee cup never saw the halfway point.
The bill for all that comfy yummy-ness was a modest thirty two dollars. I tipped large.
This is how diners and restaurants should work. Limited menus, simple, fresh ingredients, a crew that truly works as a team. Casual, friendly, relaxed. Dining as it should be.

Huddle House

13012 MO 21
De Soto, MO

The quest was for a satisfying Chicken Fried Steak. I don't recall exactly why. We discussed different restaurant options, you can find the traditional southern dish lots of places. Somehow we decided to try Huddle House. They were in my head since I'd just received another coupon via email. Not because I'm a food blogger, but because I joined their little fan club. The coupon seemed interesting, a free 'bacon waffle' with the purchase of something else.
The Place:
On Highway 21, just past Veteran's Blvd. Locals will know where that is. It's only been open a year or two. I used to go on Saturday mornings, with a book, to get out on my own for a while. I don't do that much anymore, no reason.
It's kind of small, like Waffle House and that kind of place. HH serves dinners and burgers, but they're more famous for breakfast feasts. Inside, it has that sweet maple smell that WH has as well. We headed to the only cleared and unclaimed table big enough, a five top to the left of the door. I positioned myself for maximum viewage, of the staff as well as the other patrons.
As is typical for these places, the menus are huge, shiny and colorful. More like an oversized tri-fold catalog than a list of options.
'Katie Bug' (according to her name tag) Asked us about drinks, tea, tea and pop. She told us our server, Katie, would be with us shortly. I assumed she was referring to herself in the third person. I respect that, Dennis does the same thing. It's a sign of quiet intelligence.
But no, another young lady, tagged only with 'Katie' came by a few moments later. Dennis was disappointed he'd misjudged Katie Bug. The new Katie seemed to be confident and friendly. Until I picked my toast option, when I said 'brown.' She looked baffled. Angel muttered something like 'all toast is brown.' because she's a smarty pants. Katie eventually figured out that I wanted wheat bread, which to me, seemed a silly thing to call it since all bread offered was made from wheat. The only thing that significantly differentiated the first two choices was the color of the bread, white and brown. Who makes these illogical rules anyhow?
By the time she came back with the drinks, we were all ready to order.
In the time between ordering and eating, I noticed that there were three or four TV's, muted, each one tuned to a different station. Soccer on one, closed-captioned news on another, and the nearest one had a bunch of guys digging for something. It took us a while to figure out what though, At first I  assumed they were gold diggers. Not Dean Martin's singers and dancers, the other kind, husky dirty guys with picks and shovels.
Then I noticed the overhead music. Thank the gods the volume was pretty low else I would have had to destroy the place. Country. Ugh.
The Food.
True to the quest, Angel and I both ordered the CFS. There were two versions of it, a breakfast meal with two eggs, hash browns and toast, and the dinner version with two sides, mostly potatoes with only one veggie option, the unnamed vegetable of the day. We both opted for the breakfast version, since we knew that's what this place was pretty good at.
Angel wanted her eggs scrambled. She also went for the third bread option, also made from wheat, raisin toast.
I asked for over-medium eggs since I like to stir the hash browns into the gloppy yolk.
Adam did us a favor, asking for the thing we had a coupon for, a bacon waffle with chicken tenders. Too bad we'd not printed out the coupon.
The wait for the food was longer than I expected, but not excessive. I watched the guys dig. They finally ID'd the show 'Prospectors Unearthed' They search for rare gems, mostly they looked like random rocks and pebbles.
The food arrived via two servers. They'd split the adult meals into three plates apiece for some reason. The CFS had its own plate, as did the toast. the eggs and hash browns shared a slightly larger one. We thought this was a bit of a waste when it would all have fit nicely on a single, regular sized plate.
Angel and I did the same thing, transferred the steak over to the egg plate and shoved the empty plates out of the way.
They had provided a steak knife, though it was hardly necessary. CFS is pounded tender, and HH had done a good job of that. I did notice that the steak knife was considerably sharper then those they pass out at Ruby Tuesday, where they serve actual, un-pounded steak. The CFS was the first thing Angel and I tried. She nodded and said that she liked a crispy chicken fried steak.
And yes, it was indeed crispy. Inside the breading, the meat was moist and tender. Not over salted or over peppered, just right. It satisfied my craving perfectly. Even the gravy was spot-on. Thick and not over spiced.
The eggs were, of course, perfectly cooked. I've never had a disappointing egg at HH. Angel and I agreed that the hash browns could have been a little crispier, but they tasted good, especially swirled in egg yolk and occasionally a little spillover gravy. My brown toast was fine, I did notice it was lazily buttered. A splat in the middle of two facing slices and not spread. I wasn't too bothered, it's just toast. I wouldn't have ordered it had it not come as standard equipment on the meal.
Adam seemed to enjoy his waffle and tenders. A bacon waffle is really just a waffle with crumbled
bacon on it, not in it. I make sausage waffles at home. I crumble the sausage and mix it into the batter. Adam assumed they would do a similar thing here, nope, just sprinkled some crispy bacon crumbs on a standard waffle. Not a terrible thing, since it is, after all, bacon and waffles.
Summary:
Pretty satisfying. Simple stuff prepared traditionally leaves little room for surprises. A fair price too, $32.40 for everything, about half the cost of the previous week's less than great meal at Ruby Tuesday, with sharper knives as well. You could not eat here often and maintain your girlish figure, it's better suited for carb loading and the occasional comfort food fix. No fruit, nearly no veggies, mostly starchy, buttery and fatty. But for a busy day or a long day on the road, a real pleaser.

I've noticed on social media that this chain gets a lot of criticism. I've never had a bad experience. The place was clean, the food was well prepared, and the service, the two Katies, were friendly, efficient and professional.
As I looked around, everyone seemed to be at least satisfied, even the skinny red headed young man with the scraggly red beard, foot long ponytail and three foot chrome chain clipped to his belt loop at one end and billfold at the other. I did notice several patrons that spanned more than one generation, kids with grandparents. I suppose it's a good place for that, lots of things that both kids and mature adults can enjoy.
I recently went to a diner in Hillsboro, the name of which, I won't mention. I had breakfast, a waffle two eggs, hash browns and bacon. It was awful. The hash browns were greasy and bland, the eggs overcooked and the waffle was delivered with a generous sprinkling of powdered sugar. For me, the sugar ruined the waffle. It wasn't listed on the menu. That's twice that place has served a very disappointing simple breakfast. I don't think I'll go back. Huddle House, on the other hand, has never disappoints. It's that simple. Get the standards right, customers will come back. Huddle House delivers. Dennis approves.

Waffle House

#1163
Festus, Mo.


You know where it is, just off the Interstate.
The one in Festus, overlooking I-55 is pretty much just like the other 2100 locations in 25, mostly southern, states.
The Place:

There's something quite laudable about consistency, simplicity and efficiency. Also, another Boy Scout-like quality, preparedness.
"The ability of a Waffle House to remain open after a severe storm, possibly with a limited menu, is used by FEMA as a measure of disaster recovery known as the Waffle House Index."
Yeah, they're ready for it. Portable generators, a stockpile of food, and a healthy Disaster Preparedness plan.
The same can be said about the food, simple, clean, unfettered by sparkles and bling.
Open 24/7/365, fair weather or foul, they've got what you want, when you want it.
The place is small, cozy, friendly. The diner-like layout encourages interaction with the crew, and the crews I've come across are always willing to chat, a little or a lot.
Angel had a craving, a hankering for hash browns this week. I don't try to understand or explain these things, I just go along for the ride. I can enjoy breakfast for dinner, lunch, or even breakfast, just about any time.
It wasn't very busy this warm but pleasant Saturday night. Someone said that everyone was at the fair, the Jefferson County Fair, in Hillsboro.
The fair was exactly why we decided to not go to a place in Hillsboro. Whenever and wherever a throng of people are gathering, we can be found going the other way.
I was of limited mind. For two nights in a row my ankle collar, rather, my work phone, had interrupted my precious nights' sleep multiple times. Functional, but listing off task quite a bit.
We stepped in and picked from several open booths.
The Food.

The menus were two sides of a legal-paper sized, colorful, laminated card. Limited options, sure, but everything you need. A young lady name-tagged 'Rebequa' stopped by and asked about drinks. Coffee, sweet tea and Coke. We flipped the menus several times, as if we didn't know what we wanted.
Actually, I was taking a risk. I was not going to order two eggs, over medium, bacon, hash browns (with onions) and toast, which is my normal order for places like this. I decided to go off the map. I knew they could whip together a good breakfast, time to push the envelope, live on the edge.
I finally picked the 'Texas Bacon Cheesesteak Melt, a sandwich. It came with hashbrowns, I 'smothered' mine, onions.
Angel asked 'Rebequa' about the portion sizes of the hash brown meals. She pulled out the stops. She went for the large, adding onions, ham and sausage gravy (smothered, chunked and country.) She added two scrambled eggs on the side, said no thanks to toast because that just seemed excessive.
Adam picked his go-to plate, the two egg (scrambled) All-Star special, toast, hash browns (plain), bacon and a waffle.

Smothered, Chunked, Country.

I announced my choice and got stares from the family.
'Becca' as her crew members called her, scurried off. I was going to ask her about the spelling of her name, but decided against it, that's exactly what she wanted people to do.
The food came pretty fast, I'd only made it through one Angry Bird level. Angel and Adam had not made it very far into whatever they were e-devicing either. No complaints though.
The plates came out and looked perfect. The scrambled eggs were all bright and moist, not overcooked. The hash browns looked crunchy. As her plate appeared before her, Angel moaned, the moan of a woman about to be perfectly satisfied.
Adam's took more than one plate, three to be exact, the waffle and the bacon each got their own. I personally don't care too much for WH's waffles, too cake-y and sweet. Adam immediately blasphemed and covered his with syrup (blech!).

Why so many pickles?

My sandwich looked simple. Not over stuffed, not pouring out of the edges. Many places go overboard with sandwiches, I prefer that they don't. I was worried about it a little though. In my mind I had accepted the fact that the steak would be tough and dry. I didn't know where that premonition came from, but it was a risk I was willing to take. It was accompanied by a squeeze pouch of 'real mayonnaise' and more pickles than were necessary. I shoved a few into the sammich though, squeezed in a little mayo.
Adam sorted his all out, keeping it all on separate plates. I would have

mushed everything together, but he's his own man.
Across from us, sitting at the counter, a husky, middle aged man continued bantering with the crew. He seemed familiar to them, calling them each by name. Then they started discussing schedules, covering shifts and I got the impression that we might be in the presence of the owner/manager.
They were discussing how light the traffic flow in the diner had been, he chalked it up to the fair.
"But they'll come here when afterwards won't they?" One of the young ladies asked him.
"Nah, they'll be too hot and tired and filled with deep fried carnival food." He answered.
"What about the drunks?" Another asked.
"They'll go to White Castle." He chuckled.
At another point they were discussing being nice to difficult customers. He had wisdom for that as well. "If they want bad service they can go to Huddle House." Everyone laughed at that as well. I liked this guy.
My sandwich surprised me. I was all ready  to be harsh, but it turned out to be pretty good! The steak was thin and moist, tender and tasty. It was no original Philly cheese steak, but for a local hash house, not bad, not bad at all.
The food disappeared rather quickly. Angel's moan turned into soft grunts and occasional single word essays. "Crunchy". "Gravy.", "Mmm." and "Perfect"
Summary:
Rebequa laid the check down ($28.52) on our table as we were wrapping up. She took the empty plates away. I noticed she'd written her name on the check, not Rebequa, but rather Rebecca. Actually she spelled it out ReBecca. A real identity crisis going on with this one. I couldn't tell whether when the crew talked to her they were saying Becca or Bequa. Maybe she's on the run from the cops.
She was good though. Kept us refilled and cleaned off, got the orders exactly right. It was a fun meal, Waffle House is a happy place, even with all the drunks going to White Castle instead. I'd have to be very liquored up myself to ever step foot into that disgusting place.
The food was, as expected, fast and quite good, even the off-the-norm sandwich.
As I said at the top, there's something to be said for simplicity, quality and consistency. It is as dependable a place as you'll find. No fake pink meat slop, no added flavorings or preservatives, just good, hearty food, cooked quite well.

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.