The final story about our trip happened on the fringes of Appalachia in Tennessee. When our son is on tour through the south, the entire 35 members of the tour with its three tour busses and two large semi trucks will pull into a Waffle House Restaurant for breakfast. The pecan waffles and hash browns are to die for.
We followed his recommendation though usually for lunch so I ordered the small grilled chicken wrap with no cheese and a little lettuce, please. Michael, on the other hand, took full advantage of the BLT and of course, the pecan waffles. With butter. And sweet tea.
Well, we’re driving again on a very small back road from Knoxville to Frankfort, Kentucky when we pulled into a Waffle House for lunch. If you have never experienced a Waffle House, they are all different. They can be tiny with just a couple tables while another may be rather large and even though we ordered the same food at several different locations, we never got the same thing twice. In Texas, I even got two grilled chicken wraps. Weird.
So, we pulled into this tiny one in a very rural town in the mountains. There were just a few people there and we sat in a booth near another booth occupied with two couples.
The young waitress –with few teeth – welcomed us and noticed our funny accents. She asked where we were from. When we replied, the entire booth of people clearly from Appalachia turned to look at us. They were not smiling. They clearly were suspicious of us and not happy we were there.
It was the only time during the entire trip – including New Orleans, which can be rather dangerous – that I felt uncomfortable.
I quietly said to Michael, “Eat up.”
We were the waitress’s first Californians and she had lots of questions so she stayed with us throughout our lunch. She also shared with pride that she was a third generation Waffle House employee. She was sweet but there was clearly no warm Appalachian welcome.
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