Waffle House II

You may be familiar with this compulsion: when you have finally freed yourself from some hopeless entrapment— perhaps you had your finger stuck in a bottle, your hand in a jar, or your head between balustrades — the first thing you want to do is put the released article right back where it was, 'just to see'. Just to see what? I don't know, but this compulsion goes some way in explaining why Shelley and I went back to Waffle House last weekend.

We were very excited to find our very own Waffle House/ House of the Dead on Queensway, just two minute's walk from our new place.

I have written about Waffle House before; we made an ill-fated trip there on our first tour of the Deep South a couple of years ago. My body was not used to the atomic bond they had created between grease and food, and as such, went into some kind of deep, systemic shock that lasted almost 48 hours.

However, the Waffle House on Queensway looked like it was a cut above Alabama's, and thus, a jar worth putting my hand in. It had a timber facade on which "Pâtisserie" was spelled correctly, as well as other things in its favour that I can't remember now.

To cut a long story short: bad, bad, bad. We ordered a waffle with Belgian chocolate and vanilla ice cream, but apparently had our orders confused with somebody who had asked for angrily-served chocolate with milk sorbet on a disused sponge, which was not the same.

Waffle House 2:0 Julian and Shelley.