The Southern gentrification of the transplanted Jersey fanboy (aka Bill) continues at full tilt.
Last night's lesson: The joy that is Waffle House.
While the timing was a bit off, we were too early to get the full effect of the place swamped with drunks looking for something greasy to anchor their stomachs after being tossed out of the local bars at closing time, the ambience was, well, Waffle House.
Many may argue that one is the same as the other, but the one we visited last night, mere blocks from the palatial Casa del Cimino por la Playa, was somewhat new, with some updates to the standard WH template. The old favorites were still there - raisin toast, cheese eggs, grits galore.
Bill was in a quandry. So many wonderful things on the menu, and he just sort of locked up. He turned down grits (we're still working on that one - at least he barely insulted the ones I make this go round), and became totally flustered and bewildered at the description of smothered, covered, chunked, etc.
Eventually, he settled on the Pork Chop sandwich. A bold move, I must say. I've yet to venture into that portion of the WH menu myself. He ate it, and found that it was good. Another convert.
So you can teach a gouty dog new tricks. Here he has passed by this icon of the American landscape, virtually on his doorstep, possibly a bazillion times, and not stopped in.
I suspect he may become a 3am regular, in short order. But Alice may need to keep an eye on him...he was absolutely smitten with the waitress that didn't take our order. Good thing, he probably would have made a spectacle - which at night, in WH, is no mean feat.