This is yet another Waffle House story. I can’t help myself. I am drawn to its charm like a moth to a back porch floodlight. Like it or not, I know there is a small piece of home behind those frosted glass windows.

The average temperature inside a Waffle House is 320° below sub-zero. Whenever a new manager is hired, he or she goes through intensive thermostat control training. The AC units that sit outside are big enough to cool an aircraft carrier and the freon is shipped to Waffle Houses all over the country directly from Antarctica.

Walking past the front windows at WH is like walking through the penguin exhibit at the zoo. Patrons behind glass huddled together around tables. Grown men wearing jackets in July. The seasoned WH ladies all bring lap blankets.

You can tell the rookies and the Yankees from the more seasoned southern patrons. They are wearing short sleeves. The rookies regret it. The Yankees are bragging about how nice it feels.

For example, I am meeting with three other guys for breakfast this morning. Two of us are from Georgia. We both are wearing long sleeves. The other two, though they’ve been in Georgia for a number of years now, they are from Ohio and are perfectly fine in short sleeves.

It may be the science behind the temperature, but the coffee at WH is about my favorite. Holding a WH cup of coffee reminds me of camping in the mountains in November. The warmth of the cup in my hands adds to the ambience of the WH experience.

I cruise into the parking lot and notice the vehicles that belong to the other guys. I am the last to arrive.

As I open the door the artic blast hits me, and I see hands go up from the corner booth on the far side of the restaurant. There are two guys in work boots and jeans on the bar stools at the counter. An older gentleman sits at the end table by himself. A family of four are eating waffles.

This is the same crowd that inhabits WH no matter where you go. I’ve seen these same people in Spring City, Tennessee. The same décor in McKee, Kentucky. Heard the same kitchen banter in Anderson, South Carolina. Ordered the same waffle and bacon in Mobile, Alabama.

I take my seat. The waitress comes over with a coffee pot in hand.

“Would you like coffee, Honey?”

Her nametag is hidden behind her vest, so I didn’t get her name. She is maybe mid-thirties, auburn hair held tight by her hairnet, and an official WH visor pulled down across her forehead.

“Yes ma’am, I would. And I’m ready to order if you’re ready.”

“I’m always ready,” she says.

She pours me a cup, sits the pot down and pulls out her 3×5 order pad. Pen in hand. There are no electronic tablets at Waffle House. Life here is how restaurants used to be when I was young. It’s part of the charm.

“Do you think you could make me a pancake for breakfast?”

A few weeks ago, I mindlessly walked into a WH and ordered pancakes. I got the strangest look, and it took me a minute to realize the error of my ways. The thing is, I was serious. I didn’t think about the absurdity of my request. The waitress had a good laugh at my senility.

This time I knew exactly what I was doing. It was a test to see what kind of reaction I would get. Turns out it was pretty much the same response from Gracie. I have decided to give her a name.

“No sir. You’d have to go to I-Hop for that.”

The guys chuckled. I have a reputation for ordering breakfast without ever looking at the menu. Still, I persisted.

“You got a griddle, don’t you?”

“We do.”

“You’ve got some batter somewhere, I’m sure?”

“We’ve got plenty of waffle batter.”

“Well, I bet you could pour some of that batter on that griddle and make me a pancake.”

Gracie was having none of it. She gave me the stink eye. I gave in and ordered a waffle with bacon.

She was standing close enough to me to get personal. Her pad held in her left hand at eye level. I couldn’t help but notice the tatts on her hand and wrist as she wrote down our orders.

“Tell me about your tatts. What’s the story behind them?”

There was a handgun on the back of her hand with a rose stem coming out of the barrel down her index finger.

“That one represents a dark time in my life where I came out of it smelling like a rose.”

She went on to tell me about each tatt on each of her other fingers.

“That one’s my zodiac sign. The “T” is the initial of my last name. The one on my pinky is for my kid.”

“What about the wrist?” I asked.

“Oh, Lawd. I got that one when I was drunk one night. I have no idea what I was thinking.”

Gracie is polite in spite of my intrusion. I have no idea what terrible, life-changing event she went through in her young life. There’s no wedding ring on her finger. I assume she’s working all the shifts she can get to support herself and her child, who just might be the rose in her life that came out of that period of darkness.

Most of the waiters and waitresses I’ve ever met have some story to tell. Waiting tables and taking orders for something scrambled, smothered and covered is not exactly anyone’s dream job. But it’s honest work and most of them are doing it to make the best life they can possibly make for themselves.

Gracie brought out our meal, balancing the tenuous collection of plates on her arms. Waffles for everyone.

She looked at me. “I’ll have your bacon out in a minute. It’s still on the grill.”

A waitress who manages a smile and small talk with total strangers deserves a little courtesy in return in my opinion. So often, patrons are rude and demanding when they could actually make someone’s day with even the smallest gesture. It costs nothing to be kind.

When she came to the table with my order of bacon, she was apologetic. She held the plate in front of me as if it was a pitiful offering of pig.

“I’m sorry about the bacon. Do you want to eat extra crispy? I’ll be glad to get you another order that’s not this burned.”

“I like crisp bacon.” The house was full, and she was busy.

The sea of humanity that sits at these tables and works behind the counter is a reminder to me of how completely odd we all are in this world. God didn’t make any two of us alike. Life has dealt us all a different hand.

For fun, however, one of these days I’m gonna sweet-talk someone like Gracie into bending the rules. I’ll keep trying however long it takes.

My mission is to eat pancakes at Waffle House.