My dad and I once visited a church together on a Sunday night. This was in the middle of winter, January or February maybe, and the church was up near Cincinnati. So on the way back, we decided to stop for a bite to eat at Waffle House.
As we entered, one of the servers told us the heater wasn’t working. That’s why the dining area felt so cold. Oh, well. We were inside already. We’d be okay.
Poppy splurged and ordered steak and eggs. I got a pecan waffle.
It didn’t take long for the food to arrive, but our booth by the window – not by the stoves like the entry – was seriously cold. We figured we’d just eat quickly and get back on the road. So we started.
Two minutes into the meal, though, I asked Pop, “Is your food like really cold?”
“Yes,” he said. “All of it is.”
Normally, Poppy’s pretty good about eating cold food, even cold eggs. But this wasn’t “room temperature” cold. This was “dining room with a broken heater in the middle of winter” cold. This was “still shivering in our coats” cold. Cold, not cool.
I don’t even think Pop finished.
But I did finish my waffle. It wasn’t the best I’ve ever had, but it was the most memorable.
