For some reason I have been thinking about Lewis Grizzard lately. Grizzard was a nationally syndicated columnist from Atlanta before he passed away from heart trouble at the age of 48. He was a big champion of the Waffle House, a southern breakfast chain that also serves inexpensive steaks. Never having dined there before, I decided to give it a try yesterday afternoon. Grizzard liked the fact that the steaks were cheap and the waitresses always called you "hon." And as a matter of fact, the waitress this afternoon did repeatedly call me honey. Plus, she told me I could have grits instead of hash browns with my steak if I preferred. She must have recognized my Southern (Chicago) roots. By the way, the nearest Waffle House from my condo is just across the freeway from Highlands Ranch, Colorado, where I delivered mail for the past 6 months. The only bad part of the meal was that I could hear the agonized ghostly cries of rural carriers past who were overcome by hypothermia during subzero cold waves and carried off by wolves. Not a problem, though, since the steak tasted pretty damn good.
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