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The Waffle Nazi

July 29, 2010

My friends love Mexican food. I think they bleed ranchero sauce and their intestines are lined with chimichangas. A few months ago, soon after moving to this bustling suburb of Atlanta, we went out for our weekly dose of chips, salsa and cheese. But apparently we misjudged our endeavor and arrived on the same night as every other person north of Atlanta. And so what was the obvious alternative for people with discerning taste like ours? Waffle House, of course.

I must come clean now and divulge that I would rather eat at Waffle House any day of the week or any time of the day than eat Mexican food. In fact, I could eat breakfast food all day every day. So for me, this change of plans was like giving a kid ice cream for dinner instead of a frozen burrito. Neither one is healthy, but oh boy is one better.

We were lucky in that this particular Waffle House is pretty new, so it only has about 2 years worth of grease coating the walls and seats. But we knew something was amiss when we got there and had to stand in line. Who has to wait for available seating at a Waffle House? This gave us ample time to watch the servers and scout out which one we hoped would be ours. When a table opened up, we did the strategic scoot toward it, as our way of signaling to the others that this? This table right here? It’s ours. We called it. But then we realized something. Our timing was off. The table we guarded so strategically was being served by the mid-30s male that walks around with the urgency of an ER doctor on Halloween Night. And yet–this was Waffle House. Why the urgency server man? I’ll tell you why: Because he is the Waffle Nazi.

While standing and waiting for our table to be cleared, Waffle Nazi came by and–with flight attendent gestures to help make his point–he tells us to go ahead and think about what we want to drink so we can make the most of our time. Oh, okay. Sir, yessir. We’ll just stand here awkwardly beside this dirty table and decide if we want coffee or a delicious soda beverage.

Once we were done with our assignment and seated at our table, we were ready to place our order. Not that hard to decide because you have to go with the All Star Breakfast (with scrambled eggs, bacon and grits). Done and done.Oh if only it were that simple. But when you’re dealing with Nazis, it never is.

When Waffle Nazi got to our table, I was opening my mouth to tell him my order when he stopped me and instructed me (again with the flight attendant gestures) that this is how we’ll do it: Tell him what you want to drink, how you want your eggs, what meat you want, and if you want toast or biscuits. There is a SYSTEM folks, and following the SYSTEM will make things smooth.

And then I was allowed to place my order, except in my shock at being told how to order, I forgot how to order. Heck, I’d forgotten what I wanted to eat. Where am I? What the heck just happened? Sensing my inability to order, the Nazi graciously and slowly and condescendingly took me through the order. And then moved on to the next person. Thankfully, the others were prepared and had had time to get over the shock of being told how to order. No more messing with the way things are meant to be! Because there is a SYSTEM people. A SYSTEM.

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