Sweet Tay, Waffle Fraahs, and the Glory Everlastin'
An Eggtoots McStank dispatch, filed from a booth at the Chick-fil-A on Merrimon Avenue, Asheville, where a woman named Miss Darlene called me "sugar" and I nearly wept. Now listen here, y'all. I have been to Chick-fil-As in parking lots from Sarasota to Scranton, and I am fixin' to tell you plainly: the Merrimon Avenue location, Asheville, North Car'liner, is operatin' on a different spiritual plane. I did not come here. I was called here. The double wraparound drive-thru line is not a line. It is a pilgrimage route. Let us address the holy trinity, one by one. I. The Sweet Tay In these parts, it is not "tea." Ain't no such word. It is tay, and it is swate, and if you order it any other way a woman behind the counter will look at you like you asked for a garden salad at a tent revival. The tay here is poured over crushed ice in a cup the size of a flower vase. It is sweet enough to strip the enamel off a '72 Chevelle and twice as dangerous. You will drink it. You will feel the sugar enter your bloodstream like a freight train with no brakes. You will ask for a refill. They will smile and say "my pleasure," and they will mean it, which is the part that gets you. II. The Waffle Fraahs The waffle fraah — pronounce it right or don't pronounce it at all — is a feat of engineering the Pentagon could not replicate on a budget of twelve billion dollars. Crispy outside. Fluffy inside. Little holes for sauce retention. Friends, when I say these were hot, I mean I picked one up and dropped it back in the sleeve like a man handlin' a spark plug on a August afternoon. The Chick-fil-A sauce is a substance that should, by rights, require a federal permit. Honey, mustard, barbecue, and black magic in a ratio known only to a select few. III. The Chickin'-Slingin', Church-Goin' Ladies of Chick-fil-A And now, reader, we arrive at the matter. I do not wish to overstate the case. I wish only to say, as a married man of fifty and a regular tither at my own small congregation back home, that there is a particular kind of Southern woman who works the front counter at a Chick-fil-A, and she is a wonder to behold. She has been up since five. She has already taught Sunday school, ironed her husband's good shirt, and prayed over three different casseroles. She remembers your order from last Tuesday. She calls you hon, sugar, baby, and honey-child — sometimes all four in a single transaction — and she does not mean a single one of them in a way that would trouble your mother. She means them in the way a mountain means a sunrise. Her hair is in a bun. Her name tag says something like Miss Darlene or Miss Sue-Ellen or Miss Ruby-Jean. She is sixty-two years old and she moves behind that counter like a point guard in her prime. She calls out orders in a voice trained on a church choir and carried over forty years of hog-callin' at family reunions. When she hands you your bag, she looks you in the eye, and a young man of weaker constitution — I will speak plain — could be swept clean up in the glory of her eminence and find himself, by Wednesday next, standin' in the second row of the Merrimon Avenue Baptist choir, a hymnal in his hand and a casserole dish in the trunk of his car, havin' no clear recollection of how he arrived there but a powerful sense that things are, at long last, lookin' up. I say this with reverence. I say this with my hat over my heart. I say this as a man whose waffle fraah basket was refilled without me havin' to ask. These women are the backbone of Western North Carolina and they are sellin' chicken sandwiches at a pace that would shame a Detroit assembly line. God bless every last one of 'em. The Chicken Sandwich Itself Oh. Right. The sandwich. Two pickles. Buttered bun. A chicken filet that snaps when you bite it. It is exactly what you know it to be, and that is the highest compliment I can pay a piece of food. Consistency, friends, is its own miracle. Closed on Sundays And I will remind you, as they will remind you, they are closed on Sundays. This is not negotiable. This is not a suggestion. If you want a waffle fraah on the Lord's Day in Asheville, you will need to take it up with a higher authority than the manager. The Bottom Line Five out of five gilded arches. Go hungry. Go humble. Order the number one meal, large, with a sweet tay. Tip the jar. Look Miss Darlene in the eye when she hands you the bag and say "thank you, ma'am," like your grandmother taught you. You will leave a better man than you came in. Eggtoots out. 🐔⛪🍗