Since my post about fat waitress stirred up so much controversy the other day, I thought I should write about a perfectly wonderful waitress I had recently and try to even things out. And not only was she a little darling, she was also skinny. There, I said it. I went to The Cracker Barrel because I felt like my arteries were running entirely too smoothly and I wanted to clog them up a bit. I understand that The Cracker Barrel has a less than stellar attitude towards the gays, but when it comes between equal rights and biscuits and gravy, my true southern nature shines through and I must throw the gays under the bus. Two orders of biscuits with extra gravy please.
My waitress was named Candice and she had worked there for two years. I know this because servers have their names embroidered on their aprons and then they get a star embroidered for every year they have been there. I once had a waitress there who had seven stars. She was like the brigadier general of Cracker Barrel. Candice was sweet, attentive and professional, god bless her little pea-pickin’, gay-hatin’ heart. I really have to give it up to those servers at The Cracker because looking around the dining room, I saw what most of their customers were like: rude, hungry, cheap tippers who have a brood of children hanging off their teets. Seriously, one lady had four kids all under the age of five and she looked like she couldn’t have been over 25 years old. I hate to say it, but there was some major poor white trash going on up in there. (And I can say that because I spent a few years of my life living in a trailer in Texas, and I ain’t talkin’ a double wide, either. I speak of PWT, because I know of PWT.)
People go to The Cracker Barrel ready to chow down. I watched one lady instruct her server to remove everything from the table except the salt and pepper shakers. He cleared the bowl of creamers, the table tents, the oil lamp, the hot sauce and the little game where you move the golf tees around. I couldn’t hear what she was saying but thanks to my ability to read lips, I was able to tell what she said: “Honey, you best be making plenty of room for mines food ’cause mama’s about to go to town.” Moments later it was clear why she needed the space. Between her and her husband they must have ordered enough food for a small village. They were serious about eating. And not so serious about tipping. When they left, there were two empty plates, one half-filled glass of sweet tea, a few crumbs and two dollars.
But Candice kicked ass. She filled my water before it was half empty, brought me lemon wedges even though I didn’t ask for them, and remembered my extra gravy. You know. For the biscuits? She did consistent check backs and cleared the table the moment I had crammed the last bit of pancake in my mouth. And yes, I had biscuits and pancakes. And eggs. And sausage. And cheesy hashbrowns. I told you when people show up to The Cracker Barrel, they mean business. And I am including myself in that group. And I graciously include myself in the group of poor white trash. Humble beginnings, my friends, humble beginnings.