If, like us, you find your spirits dampened by relentless rain, double mirror replacement sticker shock, and post-Mardi Gras parade let down, and you find yourself plowing down the I-10, westbound toward Houston, there’s no where else to eat but the Waffle House at exit 100.  Tell Miss Susie we sent you.

We’ve had a couple of colourful Waffle House moments over the years… the punchline of the best involved a waitress with long red nails running a chicken breast under the tap. then waving it all around the grill space yelling, “WASHED CHICKIE!!!”  But that’s another story.  Miss Susie is a close second.  She earned herself a 30% tip and the designation of “best waitress we’ve ever had”… even if she did make me eat two bowls of grits I didn’t order and dumped a full glass of orange juice in Elisha’s lap.

We arrived in the bright yellow diner where Miss Susie holds court daily from two ‘til nine, “Ya’ll come any day and I’ll be here… there’s another girl who works sometimes, but she’s no good… come back when I’m here,” she announced between snaps of her gum.  We forgot to eat lunch today (too much drama with the mirror replacement… one arrived broken and we had to drive two hours to collect the second) and breakfast was soggy pancakes at the hostel amongst hung over college kids before eight this morning.

Waffle House at exit 100, Lafayette, LA

Miss Susie took our order leaning heavily on one foot, with her elbows on the table.

“What can I getcha Baby?” she cooed at each little boy…

“Remember, there are no refills on the orange juice,” I mentioned to Gabe.  Miss Susie shot me a sour look,

“HE can have OH-JAY if he wants it, and I’ll take care of him!”  she winked at Gabe with a conspiratorial whisper, “I’m the only one here, there’s a camera and a microphone recording everything, but I can pretty much do what I want!”  He smiled with satisfaction and ordered his OJ.

The other children followed suit, seeing that getting away with culinary murder was a distinct possibility with this waitress:

“Can I have a BIG person waffle instead of a kid waffle and still pay a dollar?” asked Ezra with his signature “cute face.”  Of course he could, and would he like Miss Susie to add some chocolate chips on the side?

“Those are for FREE Dad, don’t worry, I’m takin’ care of you too, Baby.”

They loaded up on all things distinctly southern:  grits, hash browns, extra bacon.

Hannah eyed the biscuits and gravy,  “Oh NO Baby… uh-uh, you don’t want them biscuits and gravy, not today, mm-mm… they’s TERRIBLE today.”  Hannah ordered her waffle, eggs and bacon with grits instead.

Miss Susie moved on to us.  Tony ordered half a pig with the expected acoutrements while I nervously chewed a hang nail to avoid laughing right out loud.

“STOP biting your nails girl!” barked Miss Susie my direction with a disapproving eye and a red glint in her nose ring.

“Yes Ma’am, I mumbled and bit my lower lip to stifle the rising tide of giggles.

She and her purple hair (sticking every which way out of the top of her visor hat) stomped back behind the counter and she hollered at the top of her lungs,

“Bud!!  Quit playin’ wit your boo and get out here!  We gots an order!!…. BUD!!!  Now!  I SAID we gots an order!”

A wiry mustachioed man appeared and started to cook, another man, evidently his “boo” (who also turned out to be the manager) situated himself at the bar while the cooking commenced.

Grits. My favorite.

We didn’t exactly get what we ordered, but what we got was good and we certainly weren’t about to cross Miss Susie by pointing out that I would have DIED a slow death of starvation instead of order ONE bowl of grits, never mind two.  I ate them, between giggles.  I did foist the second bowl off on the boys, which she noted and gave me a sharp look of disapproval for.  Tony read the signs above the bar which included things like:  “we will make every effort to accommodate your smoking preference (in one open room) don’t be mad if someone else’s food gets done faster than yours, some things take longer to cook than others, and Waffle House strives to be the all-American restaurant therefore we don’t tolerate coarse language, lewd dress or rowdy behavior.”

He was just finishing up this last sign when Miss Susie arrived to tell us how some waitress got reprimanded for saying (insert F-bomb here) “Sorry kids…” she tossed over her shoulder with a wave of her acrylic nails and “really, couldn’t people respect that this  is a FAMILY restaurant?” She checked on the kids, moved Ezra’s bacon around on his plate and patted his head,

“Okay!  I’m going to go make my bladder-gladder now, (don’t worry, I’ll wash my hands!) and I’m going to do something else you should never start!”  She announced, waving her cigarette at the wide eyed kids.

“I hope she just means having a smoke,” I snidely whispered to Tony between mouthfuls of sticky grits.

Two other diners straggled in:  and older man who shuffled across the parking lot with his jacket held over his head, a poor defense against the rain, the other, a finely dressed southern-belle of a lady who sat at the bar. .  Miss Susie was so engrossed with entertaining the children and shouting at Bud that she didn’t notice the ma right away.

“Well dang it Baby, when did YOU snuck in here?!” she hollered when she finally noticed the trucker.  “Why didn’t you TELL Miss Susie you was sittin’ here?  You want some coffee?  I’m sorry I didn’t see you Baby.  Can I get you some coffee?”

“Well, I thought maybe you didn’t like my hair,” he joked, patting his wet, crop of thin, snarly white on the top of his head while winking over my shoulder at Tony, who by this time was posting a picture of the diner on Facebook.  Susie disappeared into the bowels of the Waffle House and clattered around making a fresh pot of coffee, noticing the refined female guest on her way back out:

“You want carry out or eat in?” she snapped at the woman in the red coat.

“Eat in,” the lady replied.

“Okay, but you can’t eat here.  Uh-uh… dinner’s more fun when you eat with a friend, you go sit over there with that man, he’s alone too and you can talk.”  The lady looked a little stunned but began to collect her things and obey Miss Susie, who by this time was pouring coffee and talking to her trucker.

“You don’t mind do you?  I got you a date.  That nice lady over there.”  It was obvious that the trucker did not mind in the least and in the end he purchased the lady’s dinner after they’d swapped life stories.  Miss Susie was obviously pleased with herself.

Miss Susie & the kids

Bellies full and hearts much lighter, we could delay our departure no longer.  Miss Susie posed for a picture with the kids and then yelled,

“WAIT!  We need hats!!  Hey Boss, we got those black and yella Waffle House hats in the back still?  The ones you like to wear?”

The Boss grumbled something that was an unmistakable “No and if we did you couldn’t have them,” even if the words weren’t intelligible, as he disappeared into the men’s room.  Miss Susie shot him a dark look and flapped her arms.

“Oh yes we do and I’m gonna go get some, hang on Babies, this will make the picture real nice.”  She returned with the promised hats and passed them out.

Ezra gave her the, “You’ve got to be kidding me,” look that he perfected shortly after birth, Miss Susie ignored him and jammed that paper hat down on his little noggin.  Positioning herself in the middle of our herd, primping her purple hair, straightening her apron,

“Look at me, no lipstick or nothin’!  Okay Babies, say ‘cheetos’!”

And there she was, immortalized in our family album, earning every bit of her tip, “Thank you for that tip Baby,” she cooed at my husband, “Biggest one I ever got here!” She hugged us all good-bye and told us we’d better be back in three months and not to forget she works from 2-9.  Best dinner I’ve had that I didn’t like in years.