There needs to be something said for Southern hospitality, because it is not just an expression. Our first official pit stop after passing through Cincinnati was at a small town off a long stretch of I-65 South. Weary from travel and running on nothing but a 24 oz. coffee, we hopped off an exit in search of a hot meal.
The first stop, at the recommendation of co-pilot Marc, was a liquor store, aptly called Turnpike Liquors. Kentucky is apparently known for its low prices, so we decided it would be a good time to stock up for the night ahead.
This is where Southern hospitality comes in to play. Normally, when you walk into a liquor store at 10:00am, you get judgmental stares from the workers and are subsequently handed a brochure for the nearest AA meeting. In Shepherdsville, walking into a liquor store in the morning seemed about as common as wearing full camo to a Waffle House (more on this later).
Before the door could close, a bubbly brunette behind the counter greeted us with a jovial, “You all look like you could use some help!” Obviously, with Marc in his Fossil shades and I in my Shark Week t-shirt, stood out from the usual crowd. We perused through aisles of booze, eventually settling on a $10 bottle of 100-proof corn whiskey. Speaking of whiskey, never before have I seen such a vast selection. Single barrel, corn, malt, bonded – it was everywhere. We grabbed a bottle, picked up a case of beer, and walked to the counter.
As Marc conversed with Southern Belle #1, I kindly introduced myself to Southern Gentleman #1. Upon placing my case on the counter, he smiled and said, in a heavy Southern draw, “That oughta get ya through lunch, what’re you gonna do after that?” I loved the guy.
Having satisfied our thirst, we sought to find the dingiest, most backwoods breakfast Kentucky had to offer. Unfortunately, Shepherdsville was not exactly known for its culinary prowess, and we were a little pressed for time, so we instead settled on a Waffle House just up the road.
If I was in Pittsburgh, and I walked into a Waffle House, and an elderly gentleman turned from his breakfast and said, “How are you?” I might think he was schizophrenic. In the South, it was just a fine example of Southern hospitality.
We sat and ate arguably the best Waffle House breakfast of our lives, while I listened to two waitresses gab about the Weight Watchers point system (surprisingly, hot dogs are only 2 points).
I ordered a personal favorite, country ham, coupled with a pair of dippy eggs, hash browns (smothered, covered, peppered) and a gravy-smothered biscuit. Marc packed down an all-star combo of eggs, bacon, cream biscuits, and hash browns (smothered, covered, chunked). A word on country ham: sensational. Country ham is salt-cured, making each bite a flaky, salty, chewy piece of amazing. Pair this with a butter-soaked biscuit, and you have a breakfast calorie-laden enough to carry you through any day. I don’t care if it’s a chain, I will say it here: the farther south you go, the better Waffle House gets.
The South is a different place from the North, and in many ways, it’s a good thing. Sure, you might see someone wearing full camo to breakfast, but seeing two strangers strike up a conversation about, well, nothing, is a sight to behold, atleast for two Northerners. Say what you want about the South, but I appreciate it when a 65 yr. old can take a genuine interest in the travels of two idiots from Pittsburgh.
And how about Southern expressions? How many times have you asked someone how they are doing, and they reply with a smile and say, “vertical and breathing?” That’s cooler than, well…forget it. I’ll just stop at the next gas station and hear a comparison a thousand times better than anything I could dream up.
My hope is that one day, someone from Shepherdsville will read this. It may never happen, but if it does, let me say this: I tip my hat to you Shepherdsvillian.
Vertical and breathing,
CPS
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