When you move to America from Britain, you learn a few things quickly. They say tomato differently, as though it is a whole new vegetable. Oregano comes out oddly, like a cousin you never knew you had. And for reasons still unclear to me, they drop the H from herbs, as though the poor letter had been evicted.

But above all else, you learn this: sooner or later, every American will tell you, “The best place to go after a bellyful of beer is Waffle House.”

And that always made me a little nervous. Because let’s be honest—any place recommended only after a barrel of warm beer isn’t necessarily the kind of establishment you want to face sober.

Think kebabs at 3 a.m. in Liverpool. Think curry chips eaten off a curb. So for years I avoided it, muttering, one day, I’ll try it.

That day finally came a few nights ago in Georgia.

I texted my best mate: “I’m on the fence about going to Waffle House.”

He replied: “Try it?”

I reminded him: “I’ve got a live show tomorrow.”

His answer: “In that case, probably smart to skip.”

A few minutes later, another ping: “So… what did you decide about Waffle House?”

By then I had already pulled into the neon-lit car park. I sent him a photo of the glowing yellow sign.

His reply came instantly: “Oh geez.”

And that is how I found myself stepping through the door at 7 p.m., sober as the day I was born.

The smell hit first: butter and bacon fat, coffee gone slightly bitter on the burner, onions frying in oil. It clung to the air, to your clothes, to your very pores. The light was harsh, buzzing neon that made every detail sharp—the gleam of the chrome stools, the gloss of laminated menus sticky at the edges, the dull sheen of a floor that had seen a thousand late nights.

“Welcome to Waffle House!” they all sang in chorus, cheerful as cousins at a family reunion you did not know you had.

At the griddle stood Tabitha, my cook for the evening. The sound of her work was its own symphony: eggs cracking, bacon hissing, the clang of her spatula against steel. She moved with rhythm, a dancer in sensible shoes, gliding through bacon-fat ballet. Her apron smelled faintly of smoke and onions, and watching her, you could not help but believe she loved it here.

I asked what she recommended. Without hesitation, she smiled: “Hash browns, all the way.”

The plate arrived groaning under its own weight. I could hear the sizzle still rising from the potatoes, could see the glossy river of melted cheese tangled with chili and jalapeños, could feel the heat radiating off it like a warning.

The fork felt less like cutlery and more like a trowel at an archaeological dig, breaking through the crust to release a plume of steam, a vaporous benediction of salt, spice, and self-indulgence.

The first bite was chaos in stereo. Crunchy potatoes, molten chili, jalapeños setting off little fireworks on my tongue, cheese stretching in gooey strands like it was auditioning for Spider Man. It did not politely introduce itself—it kicked down the door, redecorated my taste buds, and shouted, “Welcome to America!”

It didn’t look like food—it looked like something NASA should be testing for re-entry.

It was disgusting. It was divine. It was the culinary equivalent of karaoke—you know it is wrong, you know you will regret it tomorrow, but in the moment you are Freddie Mercury.

And then it happened. The music shifted, and Teddy Swims came on the radio—I Lose Control. His voice, gravelly and rich, filled the room. Suddenly, the staff were singing. Tabitha twirled her spatula like a microphone, belting the chorus between the hiss of eggs. The customers joined in, forks clinking against plates, voices off-key but joyful. For a moment, the fluorescent hum was drowned in soul.

I sat there, fork poised, grinning like an idiot. The taste of chili still hot on my tongue, the sound of voices rising with Teddy, the neon light flickering above, the smell of onions and grease thick in the air, the vinyl seat sticking just slightly to the back of my legs.

After years of hearing about it, I had finally done it: Waffle House. And the locals were right. It is not just a place you eat. It is something you survive, sing through, and leave baptized in chili, cheese, and neon light.

I have eaten in temples of gastronomy where waiters glide like butlers from heaven, whispering the Latin names of fish I will never remember, as if they were reciting a spell to ward off hunger. But Tabitha—God bless Tabitha—was better.

No theatrics, no script. Just honest, kind, genuine service, as pure and unadorned as butter sizzling on her griddle. The sort of service that reminds you restaurants are not meant to be cathedrals. They are meant to feed you—and she did, with more grace than a Michelin star.

If Michelin gave stars for honesty, Waffle House would own the night sky.

I left not just fed, but converted—proof that grace can arrive with grease, smothered, covered, and scattered across a griddle at seven o’clock on a Wednesday.