'Halls guy' finally makes it to the Waffle House

OK, I have a confession to make: until today, I'd never once eaten at the Halls Waffle House.

I'm not sure why, really. I've been to the Waffle House at Emory Road and I-75 several times -- after a George Strait concert, for a mid-morning breakfast interview with David Hunter, on assignment with Don Dare years ago. Stopping by the Waffle House at the Clinton exit used to be a ritual for Drew Weaver and me when we'd go to the lake. And, yep, I've stopped at several of them throughout the South during my travels.

But I'd never eaten at the Waffle House that is literally within walking distance of my office. Go figure.

We wanted breakfast for lunch and were running behind. Jennifer suggested Waffle House. Those patented hash browns sounded super.

Place was packed. We sat at the bar. The food hit the spot.

So, too, did the conversation. Every Waffle House I've ever been to employs servers that are ripped right out of "Alice." I have to confess I enjoyed every "honey" and "sugar" and was only disappointed that nobody said, "Kiss my grits!" Best of all, I never once had to wait on or ask for a refill.

Sitting at the bar, we got to watch the servers. They are in constant motion, yelling orders, washing dishes, gossiping, cleaning this or that, counting change. In spite of the busyness, the service was superb. I think it's partially because unlike most everywhere you go these days the Waffle House, or at least this one, is staffed properly, almost as if -- stop the presses! -- they expected the Sunday noon crowd.

Our bellies full, we bounced into the boundless sunshine ready to go see the beauty of the Smokies. Color me satisfied.

I don't know why I waited this long.