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Early Morning Kitchen Jobs: The 4 A.M. Wafle House Delusion That Haunts Me

Yes, I voluntarily went to a Wafle House at 4 a.m. No, that’s not a typo. The “f” had burned out, and so had everyone inside.

A cartoon illustration of a young Waffle House cook gleefully admiring a kitchen pot while her elderly manager forces a strained smile—both clearly dead inside but pretending to be alive for the breakfast rush.
When you say you love your new pot, but your soul is sautéed in regret.

There are moments in life when you think, Wow, I made a series of choices that led me directly into this hellscape, and for me, one of those moments happened just before sunrise in an industrial dumpster of a city I can’t even remember. The kind of place that has more power lines than trees. I woke up at an hour most serial killers would consider too early, got in my car, and drove to a Waffle House—but due to a flickering sign, I found myself at the much sadder cousin: Wafle House.


This is a story about jobs that suck. And how watching someone cling to joy in one of them changed me forever.



The Smell of Grease and Existential Despair


The Wafle House was empty except for two employees: a 22-year-old woman who was trying very hard to pretend her soul hadn’t left her body yet, and a 70-year-old manager whose entire retirement plan, I assume, was to die while flipping hashbrowns.


They greeted me like I was either the Grim Reaper or a Yelp reviewer. I ordered something—anything—to justify being there. The air smelled like burnt oil, resignation, and the faint citrus of industrial cleaner trying (and failing) to mask the scent of shattered dreams.



She Loved the New Pots


The cook—let’s call her Tiffany, because of course that was her name—was unreasonably enthusiastic about the new pots.


“These are the best,” she said, holding up a scratched aluminum thing that looked like it had been used in a prison riot.


She was giddy, like a kid showing off a new toy—except the toy was a pot she would use to fry eggs for hungover plumbers and men named Earl. The manager, who looked like the ghost of middle management past, forced a grin.


“They’re good,” he said. “Real nice.”


Reader, I watched them both lie to each other in real time. Not maliciously, but out of necessity. Like, if they stopped pretending for even one second, they’d both collapse and cry into the griddle.



Why I Was Even There


I still don’t know. I wasn’t on drugs. I wasn’t drunk. I wasn’t even hungry. I think I just needed to feel something. Or maybe I was trying to punish myself for not having a real problem. Who goes to a Wafle House at 4 a.m. unless they’re running from something—or toward rock bottom?


And why that part of town? I must’ve been subconsciously drawn to the bleakest corner of the map. The area was an architectural apology. Every building looked like it owed you money.



The Secret Rituals of 4 A.M. Jobs


There’s a strange choreography to early-morning kitchen jobs. The silence. The scraping. The rhythm of clattering utensils and unspoken agreements. I watched Tiffany clean a spatula with the precision of a neurosurgeon. The manager restocked ketchup packets like he was handling radioactive isotopes.


There’s a sacredness to being awake before society pretends to function. Like you’re watching the crew clean the stage before the actors arrive. But no one claps. No one notices. No one cares.


Unless you’re some idiot at Table 2 writing a blog post about it ten years later.



Faking Enthusiasm for a Paycheck


The enthusiasm for those pots wasn’t real. It was survival.


In every dead-end job, there’s that one person who tricks themselves into caring about something just enough to avoid complete collapse. For some, it’s organizing the receipt drawer. For others, it’s cleaning the soda nozzles like it’s an art form. For Tiffany, it was cookware.


She said she loved the pots like someone trying to convince themselves they loved their arranged marriage. The manager nodded like he had once loved things, too. Probably a woman. Probably in 1983.



If Joy Is a Performance, This Was Broadway


I’ve worked some terrible jobs—freelance gigs that paid in “exposure,” video editing for sociopaths in startup hoodies—but watching these two pretend they were thrilled about cookware in a grease-stained dungeon of despair? That was Tony Award-level acting.


She smiled. He nodded. I ate eggs I didn’t want.


It was beautiful. And tragic. And real.



Why This Image Lives Rent-Free in My Head


I’ve been to weddings I don’t remember. I’ve met celebrities I’ve since forgotten. But this? This will live in my mind until I’m old enough to become a 70-year-old Wafle House manager myself.


It was a masterclass in coping. In pretending. In showing up anyway. It was the spiritual equivalent of trying to save a sinking ship by rearranging the deck chairs—and doing it with a smile.



So, What’s the Lesson?


Not all jobs are supposed to be fulfilling. Some jobs exist to remind you what you don’t want to do. Some exist to pay rent and slowly calcify your spine.


But that doesn’t mean the people working them aren’t worthy of applause. Or, at the very least, a proper lightbulb for the damn “f.”


If you’ve ever worked in food service, retail, or call centers, you know this dance. You’ve done your version of “the pots are great!” and smiled while dying inside.


You’re not alone. You’re just awake earlier than the rest of us.



Internal Links You Might Enjoy (If You’re Still Spiraling) Besides Early Morning Kitchen Jobs.


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