Ego my Eggo
I have this rule.
Whenever I travel anywhere anything goes, which means I don’t censor myself in regards to food, social behavior, language, or pretty much being me. Great thing about this is I generally get ego boosts when traveling anywhere because I have great stories to tell in regards to food, social behavior, and myself. This one isn’t so much about my ego at it is about eggo. Not Leggo.
So I traveled to Atlanta to see my best friend who recently got transferred and because it is Coca-Cola central. More the latter than the first, and I flew alone for the first time ever because well, my name is Carla Torres and I am addicted to Coke.
But we’ll leave that for another time.
I happened to be visiting Atlanta during Martin Luther King weekend, which as you can imagine is quite popping since MLK was from there. My best friend and his Fiance happen to be the ONLY white people who live in their building, and their upstairs neighbors happen to be part of a marching band and decide to practice every Sunday, which was great since the night before we just so happened to go to a comedy club where Orlando Jones (Dr.Lee) from Drumline was the talent. It was very fitting. Even more fitting would have been to have this be the soundtrack as I had Chicken-N-Waffles for the first time the previous day. You know, like in the movies where you have a really great moment and really great music to go along with it that resembles exactly what you are feeling? Well the people who opened Glady’s and Ron’s Chicken & Waffles gave me a really good feeling: a feeling of utter and complete satisfaction in a moment least expected.
We parked outside the restaurant in very inconvenient 30 degree weather only to find a very strange parking meter that none of us knew how to use. And how would you? Look at this thing. What’s worse is I tried to give a black man telling us to park elsewhere money that had nothing to do with the parking situation, or maybe he did. I still don’t fully understand what happened or if we even paid for parking. Did I mention Atlanta is the number one dangerous city in the world?
Wait time for a table was 45 minutes and only place to wait was outside. My good luck would of course have it that as we put our name down the only people sitting in the cozy area inside happened to get called leaving us that god sent spot. It was in my cards to have these waffles and hot and ready when I did.
Their menu is very Southern and what’s even better about the South, the real South, not Florida South is that these people own up to their heritage 100%. Slave jokes were hot topic at the comedy club, and laughter the best medicine. One, two, three, I lost count of how many times they mentioned Mississippi. Glady’s and Ron’s just like the comedy club is a hot spot for locals, only it’s not a hole in the wall, but rather a higher than average class type of establishment that looks like a nighttime jazz-playing, cigar-smoking, steakhouse in New York. Big booths with leather seats, high tables,very well-dressed servers, and food that looks just as good to go with it, you’d never think you were in a chickenhouse, but that’s exactly what it is. And in great Southern country fashion it owns up to it.
Everyone in our table got the same thing: chicken-n-waffles. I got fried green tomatoes as an appetizer and fried corn to go along my chicken-n-waffles. One of the people I was with took this whole breakfast meets dinner and lunch concept too seriously and ordered milk as her drink, but hey to each their own. Don’t knock it till you try it, which is exactly what I have to say for both the fried green tomatoes and the chicken-n-waffles. Fried to a perfect crisp these tomatoes were hot, which is the last thing I expect of a tomato so it was terrific when I found it to act of out character and even burn the roof of my mouth. And as I bit through the exterior fried crispness and then got the cool, slimy, and wet sensation that is very typical and what I am used to from my fruity friend tomato I no longer cared that I had put it in too soon or that it burned me. You could say I like it rough, although not usually during foreplay. The chicken-n-waffles weren’t rough at all. Quite the contrary. Extremely smooth, they knew exactly what they were doing and as I got more comfortable with this new idea I started spicing things up. First I tried each component individually: the chicken, waffle, and maple syrup. And then I went for it. Chicken and waffle. Fuck. I wouldn’t mind moving to the South or even being a victim of slavery if this is what I am getting fed at least once a week. I didn’t think I could get any higher than this and then I had the idea to add syrup to my twosome. Forget the corn, who was dry, bland, and quite honestly had nothing to bring to this table, so I simply set it aside. Chicken was playing hard to get (chicks usually do this, especially when it comes to having a threesome) so I had to use my hands to get what I wanted, flesh and skin, and most importantly no bones. All it needed was a fluffy waffle to sit on for an ego (since this is nothing like eggo) boost and syrup to make it a dirty threesome, but who wants to be clean in this particular situation? Not Aunt Jemima, and definitely not me. This is exactly when the upstairs neighbors marching band should have kicked in along with some gospel music, and since we’re on the topic of threesomes Dr. Lee could have joined to direct the two and praise Hallelujah as I worked on bringing this to a close. As it should be, my waffle, my chicken, and my syrup were all gone at the same time. No trace of what had just happened was left behind, and given a 15 minute break I could have had another go, but syrup had another place to be and so did I.
The Coca-Cola Factory…