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Many years ago, in my dreams of fantastic wealth, I had the brilliant idea to open a restaurant in my small mountain community that would be so special and so homey that nobody could resist its appeal for fine dining. I was going to call it "Hillbilly Bill's Breakfast Barn," and we would serve nothing but breakfast about 18 hours a day -- pancakes, waffles, a dozen kinds of omelets, biscuits with sausage gravy, homefries, hashbrowns, chipped beef on toast (I always loved that ol' SOS at breakfast, from my days as a hired killer for Uncle Sam's Marine Corps), and lots and lots of good ol' grits. Those of you who're not from The South might not understand the appeal of this particular food, but grits is "the goo that holds the South together."
Anyway, to make a long story a little shorter, the first Waffle House opened in my little town before I could get around to opening my own place. Then a second Waffle House opened...! (The true measure of a Southern town is not how many traffic lights or motels or gift shops there are, but in how many Waffle Houses can occupy the same highway intersection.) Those things, which I respectfully call "The Awful Waffle," beat me to the punch and I never fulfilled my etreprenurial dream. But, being one who's fond of cheap breakfasts served by well-rounded and toothless waitresses who call all their customers "Hon" or "Darlin'," and scream their orders in their best hog-calling _style_, I have faithfully patronized their establishments.
However, if an IHOP decides to open at the same intersection, I'm certain our "Second Saturday" meeting spot will change.
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