Belgian Waffle and Pancake House.
A hidden-in-plain-sight hole in the wall that can serve up a scrumptious omelet. I don’t know who the Belgians are, but this place is quintessentially American.
It’s 8:59 AM. We’ve been up for two hours getting ourselves and three convicted goof-offs ready for the day.
As we walk in, Son #2 bumps into Son #1 and ends up backside-down on the sidewalk. An older couple exits the building, and the woman laughingly accuses her daughter of knocking him down. Then they turn to us, smile, and wish us a good morning. We wished them well.
There are all types of people eating here. I see older men in overalls, middle-aged dads with striped polo shirts tucked into jean shorts and black socks up to their knees, and the young hip dad who glances in the mirror to stare himself down as he passes by. My guess is he gives himself ten out of five stars.
I glanced up and saw a familiar face coming down the aisle. I almost waved. Then I realized it wasn’t who I thought it was. Moms without makeup are par for the course this morning. Hair pulled back into ponytails, thankful they don’t have to care because they’re on vacation.
There are all types of people working here. There’s a lady who looks like she time-traveled here from 1986. She’s bustling around like she’s a spry twenty-something. She isn’t, but the only thing that gives it away is the stooped shoulders and wrinkles bestowed upon her by life.
Three guys are collecting the used dishes off the tables: two teenagers and a man who looks like he’s been through three lifetimes. The only word that comes to mind is rough. And he’s probably got tattoos in more places than I care to know about.
One specific ink that catches my attention is the teardrop next to his left eye. He’s joking around with the other busboys and waitresses. He’s working like the place is on fire, and he’s the only one left to save the precious keepsakes.
Chances are he doesn’t have many chances left, and he’s making the most of what he has. I wonder if he knows anyone is proud of him? I sure am.
A waitress is having a conversation nearby. Another waitress tells her someone she used to work with is here, and they want to say hello.
“No way.” She refuses.
“You need to go say hello and be nice to her.”
“Why don’t you just fire me instead?”
The other lady sighs, “Just get over there and say hello.” She nudges her. “Just make it quick. We need you back over here.” She offers an understanding smile.
The coffee is perfect, the food is nice and hot, and the second chances are refreshing.
to the local breakfast joint,
– Caleb
caneymountainblog.com 