Give a man a waffle and he'll be full all day

1955 was a banner year for fast food. In California, Ray Kroc founded McDonalds, the chain that people around the world associate with American cultural hegemony as much as with the Big Mac. That same year, the first Waffle House opened in Avondale Estates, Ga. While Russians line up around the block in the bitter cold for McNuggets and Quarter Pounders with Cheese, Waffle House has not spread far beyond its native south, which really is the rest of the world's loss.

As a northerner, Waffle House did not enter my consciousness until July, when a Floridian suggested that we stop at one on the way back from a trip to Philadelphia. Weather and fatigue made me miss my first opportunity to eat at a Waffle House, but I finally got the chance to go recently.

It was one of those picture-perfect October days that are perfect for driving with the windows rolled down, letting the warm, crisp air hit your face while watching the leaves begin to turn color. Three of us embarked on our journey in the early afternoon, choosing to take U.S. 40 all the way up to the nearest location, 50 miles to the north. Partially, this was because I didn't know where on U.S. 40 it was, but also because the road was not another boring, limited-access highway with nothing but trees and sound barriers to look at. Quite the contrary, U.S. 40 has more then its share of sleazy motels, adult video stores, truck stops, diners and other businesses you won't find at the mall, such as the World's Largest Post Card Shop in Aberdeen, which I assume carries cards featuring pictures of more interesting locales then that of the store itself.

For the more time-pressed potential patron of Waffle House, just take Interstate 95 to MD 272 South. Waffle House is on the corner of MD 272 and U.S. 40, in the town of North East, Md., which is nestled between Havre de Grace and Elkton.

The Waffle House itself is a small structure with approximately the dimensions of a classic New Jersey diner, or perhaps a little smaller. Pulling into the parking lot, I noticed that there were double-length parking spots next to a sign explaining that they were for RVs and trailers. Maybe it's because I haven't traveled extensively in the south, but this seemed strange to me.

Inside, things got more interesting. Since waffles aren't finger food, there is no drive in; so we sat down at a booth. Coincidentally, all of the booths in this particular location were for two people, so we had to pull up a chair. Are Waffle House's main clientele couples and loaners? Inquiring minds (and confused Yankees) want to know.

Once we sat down, we were visually assaulted by the menu. A single piece of yellow laminated paper, every inch of which is taken up by tiny pictures of food, prices or obscure facts, such as the number of Waffles served since 1955, which is 418,761,300.

Clutter aside, the menu had variety well beyond any "fast food" restaurant. At Waffle House, one can get hash browns prepared seven different ways - a plate with all seven (scattered off the grill, smothered with onions, covered with cheese, "chunked" with ham, topped with chili, diced with tomatoes and "peppered" with jalapeno peppers) will set you back $4.10. For $9.20, the big spender can get two whole sirloin steaks. If you're in the mood for breakfast, $6.05 buys you two eggs, grits, toast, jelly, a waffle, two sausage patties and three bacon strips. The ambulance to the hospital for acute cardiac arrest is extra.

I had a strawberry waffle, scrambled eggs, grits, toast, bacon and Coca-Cola, which, according to the encyclopedic menu, is "America's freshest," whatever that means. The Coke is bottomless, as is the iced tea and coffee, which is a good thing, since there is a lot of grease to cut, no matter what you order.

After about ten minutes of hungry anticipation, our meals arrived. The centerpiece of my order, the waffle, was not what I expected. Not a fluffy, Belgian-style waffle served in diners, the Waffle House waffle was flatter and had more square depressions, like an Eggo the size of the plate. Piled on top of the waffle was a large heap of hot strawberry sauce and whip cream in the shape of two eyes and a smiling mouth.

The portions were not excessive, but most Waffle House dishes come with multiple sides, so there is little chance of leaving with room for dessert.

The food was filling, but of mediocre quality. It was passable and greasy: comfort food that was made for late night gorging, but nothing that would merit a mention in Zagat's. Waffle House has mastered greasy and sweet tastes and not much else - the liberal application of salt improves most of the food immensely, especially the grits and hash browns, which my friend ordered with cheese, but came with a chunk or two of ham at no charge.

I had the opportunity to get up from our booth to explore the rest of the restaurant. The jukebox was of particular interest. Along with the expected pop, rock and country hits, there were over a dozen Waffle House-related songs, with titles such as "See You at Waffle House" and "Make Mine With Cheese." I was tempted to surrender a quarter to the jukebox in an attempt to further immerse myself in the Waffle House experience, but I demurred when I realized that playing "Waffle House Homecoming" would not endear me to the staff, who have probably heard the songs a few too many times before.

I already thought I was on my waitress' bad side, since she gave us the check along with our order. Not knowing that this is how they do things at Waffle House, I thought that she was trying to rush me out of the restaurant. I was afraid she didn't take kindly to my notepad, on which I was furiously writing things such as "everyone here has a southern accent" and hiding it when she came near our table.

Of course, my paranoia over the notepad and the check was based on what I had heard about Waffle House from southerners who had grown up eating there. One of the things I had heard that contributed to my perception of Waffle House employees as "you ain't from around here, are ya, boy" types are stories of racial discrimination. While the wait staff was all white, there was an African-American man in the restaurant, which contradicted what I heard. Still, inside the former Confederacy, where most of the locations are, things may have been a bit different.

For the princely sum of $21.47, the three of us ate enough food to leave us standing in front of the restaurant discussing how fat and unhealthy the meal made us feel. Getting that much passable food for that little money went quite a way to restoring my confidence in corporate America.

The day that Waffle House offers a Tandoori Chicken wrap for $6.95 is the day I move to Canada.

Now, this is the point in my review when I'm supposed discuss how Waffle House is a throwback to simpler times, representing the collective yearnings of patrons and owners alike for a simpler time before sushi, feta cheese and pad Thai hit our shores. I'm then supposed to extrapolate that Waffle House is the physical representation of a region's attempt to cling to a mythical lily-white past, complete with cheap, basic food and service with a smile. I won't do that - instead, I'll suggest that you drop by on the way to Philadelphia or New York if you want to put your passengers to sleep for the rest of the ride.