By Sean Dietrich
The Third Day of Christmas. My three French hens must have gotten lost in the mail. The weather was a stolid 34 degrees. The water in the dog bowls was stone. The sun was out.
Waffle House was warm and inviting. The parking lot was mostly empty except for a few muddy trucks. My wife and I had an 11-year-old with us. She is blind. This is her first time attending a Waffle House.
“Have a seat wherever,” said the server.
We found a table in the corner. A booth. Red vinyl. Faux wood table. Laminated menus. Napkin dispenser.
Going to Waffle House is one of my most cherished habits. I go a few times every week. Sometimes more often, if I’m on the road. I give the Waffle House corporation half my annual income. And I do it gladly.
But going to a Waffle House with a blind child is another matter entirely. The whole ordeal is different. For starters, the multisensory experience begins with the nose.
“That smell,” the child said, as we walked into the door.
She used her white cane to trace the perimeter of the aisle, navigating between booth and bar and jukebox.
“What is that smell?” she said. Nose to the ceiling.
“It’s bacon,” said my wife.
When you walk into a Waffle House, it’s the smell that gets you first. The smell of cured pork and frying tuber vegetables. It hits you in the back of the throat. If you’re lucky, the scent works its way into the fibers of your clothes. And it stays with you all day.
The child was smiling. “This place smells delicious.”
“Welcome to Waffle House,” said the server.
We told the waitress it was the kid’s first time visiting.
The employees made a big deal about it. You would have thought Young Harry and Meghan Markle were entering the premises.
We sat. We talked. The waitress gave the kid a complimentary paper hat.
I’ve known people who worked at Waffle House. The industry term for this hat is the Confidence Killer. But it looked good on the girl.
The waitress gave me a paper hat too. She put it on my head. I looked like an unhappy mess-hall sergeant.
The child is thrilled to be here and she doesn’t care who knows. She is dancing in her seat. Bouncing in rhythm to the jukebox music. Which is Taylor Swift.
“Are you having a good day” says our waitress.
“Yes, we are!!” says the kid, using not one but two exclamation points.
She ordered eggs, scrambled. Bacon, crispy. White toast, buttered within an inch of its grain. Strawberry jam. An Irish pint of chocolate milk. A giant waffle—blueberry.
The waitress drew a whipped-cream smiley face on the waffle. Nobody asked her to do that.
When the meal was finished, the waitresses asked, “Has it been a good first visit to Waffle House?”
But the kid can’t answer. Her mouth is still full.
So the waitresses offered to pose for a picture with us, to commemorate the monumental occasion. One that will not soon be forgotten.
We all pose. The photographer holds the camera and tells us all to smile. “Say cheese,” says the photographer.
“No,” says one waitress, kissing the blind girl’s head. “Don’t say cheese. On the count of three, let’s everyone say, ‘Love!’”
Whereupon every customer joined in unison, counting down with the photographer. We all counted.
“ONE…! TWO…!”
Love.
