Since Andrew Knowlton was a teen, the Waffle House — that particularly Southern institution known for killer hash browns and late-night patty melts—has been there for him. To return the favor, he decided to work a few hours at the grill. Round-the-clock, to be exact.

It was late. I didn’t plan it, it just happened. It always just happens, right? I don’t recall many of the details, but I know I left happy and satisfied with a gentle “Thanks, hon!” ringing in my ears. From that moment on I was in love…with the Waffle House .

For the uninitiated (assuming there are still some of you out there), Waffle House is a chain of 1,764 restaurants spread across 25 states. Most are located along the highways and interstates of the South. Think of the Waffle House as the 1950s Main Street diner you never had growing up. The layout is always the same—open kitchen, booths, counter seats, jukebox—and the double-sided laminated menu always includes breakfast, burgers, pork chops, T-bones, waffles, and, most famously, hash browns.

But for a Georgia boy like me, the Waffle House is a lot more than a place to eat a patty melt and drink a Coke. It’s a regional touchstone right up there with SEC football and pork rinds. There’s nothing that says “home” to me more than driving from the Atlanta airport—or anywhere in the South, really—and spotting the canary-yellow Scrabble-tile sign. It doesn’t matter what time it is; the Waffle House is open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. Some claim the doors have no locks. I always forget to check.

Brian Finke

Because of this round-the-clock service, crazy stuff famously goes down at the Waffle House. There’s the time Kid Rock got in a fistfight in suburban Atlanta. Another incident in which a drunk Georgia couple got horizontal in the parking lot, and when the cop told them to get dressed, the woman tried to slip a cheeseburger onto her foot, thinking it was her sandal. There are robberies, cars crashed into façades, and, more commonly, obnoxious boozed-up customers simply behaving badly late, late at night. (Let’s be honest: If the French Laundry were open 24 hours a day, sketchy things would happen there too.) But in the end, the Waffle House is a gathering place to sit and talk about the weather, politics, or the Georgia Bulldogs over a plate of some very tasty, no-nonsense food. Eat there often enough, and the waiters and cooks will know both your name and your order.

The Waffle House is one Southern tradition I’m happy to ingrain into my two daughters. The thicker the waiter’s Dixie drawl, the better the waffles taste, insists Julep, my six-year-old. And then last year, on a trip to Charleston, South Carolina, she asked me if I’d ever worked at a Waffle House. It got me thinking: Could I cut it as a cook there? I mean, I’d never be able to play QB for my other hometown love, the Falcons, but man the grill at the Waffle House? It seemed doable. So I went to the editor of this magazine with an idea: I would fly to Atlanta, where the Waffle House was born, and work a shift as a grill operator. He agreed, with one condition: Instead of a single shift, I had to work three—24 hours straight. Deal! Somehow the good folks at the Waffle House HQ agreed, and before I knew it, I was on my way south from my home in Brooklyn.

I was going to work at the Waffle House.

“You forgot to shave,” says Donna, the store manager of Unit 1058—my place of employment for the next 24 hours—at 3016 Piedmont Road NE. She’d told me during my brief training session the previous day that I’d either need to shave or wear something called a beard net. Apparently I didn’t believe her. Now here I am in the bathroom of the Waffle House, shaving like Harrison Ford in The Fugitive . Beats a beard net, though. Whatever that is.

7:10 A.M.

Great. My first (and only) day on the job, and I’m late. It’s busy and the breakfast crowd is full of regulars. Donna introduces me to one named Randy. Now, I love the Waffle House and have eaten there hundreds of times. Randy loves the Waffle House and has eaten there once—and often twice—a day since 1970. Do the math. His breakfast is a cheese omelet, wheat toast, tomatoes, no grits. Lunch is usually a burger or chicken sandwich. And in case you’re wondering, Randy is six feet tall and a trim 155 pounds.

Brian Finke

7:15 A.M.

I meet Brandon, the head grill operator, for my first shift and, it turns out, my second (he’s working a double today). Everyone calls him Shorty. He’s maybe four foot six and stands on a milk crate to reach the grill and the plates above it, and he’s a master. I also meet Jerome, who’s in the management training program. He’s been with the company for only three weeks, and his grill game shows it. There’s Sherrie, a server (or “salesperson” in Waffle House–speak), who I can immediately tell is sweet and patient—the kind of person you’d want waiting on you when you stumble in at 1 a.m. She’s worked here for 15 years. I’ve got good teachers.

7:20 A.M.

Brandon asks if I’m ready to handle a couple of orders. Um, no. He convinces me to make hash browns . The iconic menu item is offered many ways: scattered (as opposed to the standard order, cooked in a steel ring), smothered (onions), covered (cheese), chunked (ham), diced (tomatoes), peppered (jala­peño), capped (mushrooms), topped (chili), or country (sausage gravy). Brave souls can get them “all the way,” which is exactly that. Think of the dish as Southern poutine . The hash browns are shipped to the restaurants in supersize milk cartons. Soak the potatoes in water for two hours and you have rehydrated ready-to-cook sticks. Making an order sounds simple enough: Pour one ladle of liquid vegetable shortening (literally the grease that keeps the gears at the Waffle House spinning) on the grill and top with a scoop of potatoes. After a minute or so (I always ask for my hash browns well-done, and you should too), you add the toppings and flip. Now I can flip pancakes at home on a Sunday morning, but when I’m doing it for an audience, it’s easy to flub. Half of the hash browns spill across the grill, leaving me with a bird’s nest of both underdone and overcooked shreds. Shorty takes over.

Brian Finke

8:30 A.M.

My first waffle looks pretty ­decent. It’s not perfect around the edges—I struggled to get it out of the iron—but it’s better than my first omelet (another classic). As with the hash browns, I botch the omelet flip on the grill, so it’s folded over on itself. It’s also too brown. Into the garbage it goes. Shorty nudges me aside and makes a textbook version.

10–11 A.M.

The restaurant slows down enough for Shorty to give me a crash course on the grill. He yells out a few fake orders, and I do my best to turn them out. After 30 minutes I’ve got the hang of it. Or at least the hang of making one order at a time.

Brian Finke

11:15 A.M.

Lunch break. I have my usual Waffle House ­order: patty melt on white toast with hash browns scattered, smothered, covered, and peppered. It’s pretty good, but the potatoes are ­underdone and the melt is sloppy. I’ve got no one to blame but myself—I made it.

Brian Finke

12:34 P.M.

Randy’s back, and this time he orders a chicken sandwich, a Springer Mountain Farm breast seared on the grill and topped with lettuce, tomato, and cheese. I make it and triple-check that I haven’t undercooked the meat by cutting into it with my spatula (not exactly protocol). He takes a bite, then nods with ­approval. I think he just feels sorry for me.

Only 17 hours to go! My legs are sore and my forehead is greasy, but wait: Waffle House royalty just walked in the door. It’s Tom Forkner , who, along with Joe Rogers, Sr. , started the chain in 1955. (Yes, 2015 marks the restaurant’s 60th anniversary.) Unit 1, now a museum, was on the east side of Atlanta. In the early days the menu included $1.50 filet mignon, hash browns (no toppings), and a chicken sandwich created by the guy who went on to start Chick-fil-A. I want to be Tom Forkner one day. He is a young 96, quit playing golf only a few years ago, and drinks two Martinis every evening. I ask him the key to the Waffle House’s success. “Good food that is fast and affordable,” he says. Bless you, Tom Forkner.

4:00 P.M.

“Want to brick the grill?” Shorty asks. Sure, how bad can it be? Turns out, bricking means cleaning the grill with a huge pumice stone. It’s hot, oily, backbreaking work. Shower please?

Brian Finke

5:00 P.M.

Some important customers have arrived: my wife and two daughters and my mother. The adults laugh and the kids are in shock. Do I look that bad? I return to the table with two perfectly golden waffles—easily my best of the day.

Brian Finke

5:15 P.M.

The dinner crowd, mostly old folks and families, starts to arrive. (At this point it’s worth confessing that as a kid I went to the Waffle House a total of zero times. I’ve only recently forgiven my parents.) Everyone seems so nice. Apparently this is what the Waffle House is like most of the time.

Brian Finke

5:45 P.M.

The next order is mine and I’m shaking. The Waffle House goal is to have every table in and out in 20 minutes. Ha! The order comes in, employing the “Pull, Drop, and Mark” system that every Waffle House uses. Here’s how it works: When an order is taken, the server writes it down on a pad, and then comes back to the grill and yells it out.

“Pull” means to pull whatever meat they indicate from the fridge (e.g., “Pull two sirloins, one bacon”). They then yell “Drop,” which indicates how many hash browns to drop on the grill (e.g., “Drop three hash browns, two in the ring!”). And finally there is the “Mark,” which tells the grill operator what the actual combination is. The server might holler, “Mark steak and eggs medium over medium on two, country ham and eggs scrambled!” (a steak cooked medium with eggs over medium, and scrambled eggs with country ham).

So how do grill operators remem­ber these orders without a ticket? Well, using a chain-wide system, they “mark” each plate with a mayonnaise, ketchup, or any number of condiment packets. For a sausage omelet, say, you would grab a plate and place a horizontal grape jelly packet right side up at the three o’clock position. For a Texas Patty Melt, you place a right-side-up mayo pack in the center of the plate with two slices of buttered Texas toast and two slices of cheese. And hash browns? That involves putting a few shreds of potato on the plate with a bit of each topping requested. And that’s an easy order. The whole point of this system is that if a grill operator walks into any Waffle House, he or she should be able to jump right in. I was confused and still am.

Did I mention how good I’m getting at making waffles?

6:50 P.M.

My dad shows up and I fix him a perfect patty melt as well as hash browns scattered, smothered, and peppered. I think he is ­impressed. Finally!

7:45 P.M.

It’s almost time for Shorty to leave, and I’m nervous. The drunks are coming.

Brian Finke

8:00 P.M.

During a brief lull, the crew is talking about the 2014 ice storms that made Atlanta the poster child for winter-weather freak-outs. ­Everything was closed…except for the Waffle House, which, of course, never closes. Well, that’s not entirely true. A few units closed during hurricanes Andrew and Katrina. ­Believe it or not, FEMA uses what it calls the Waffle House Index to determine the impact of a storm. Code Green means the chain is serving a full menu, Yellow ­indicates a limited menu because of ­power issues, and Red signifies the restaurant is closed, indicating severe damage. As a FEMA official once said, “If you get there and the Waffle House is closed? That’s really bad.”

As I wait for the late rush, I’m feeling guilty about how I treated Waffle House employees when I was a snotty teenager. Payback is coming. I can feel it. Hopefully, the crew on the third shift—B., Keni, Magnificent Nikki (it’s on her name tag), Luke, Chris, and Tim—have my back.

Brian Finke

10:15 P.M.

Look who just arrived: chef Adam Evans from the nearby restaurant The Optimist , a spot I named one of ­America’s Best New Restaurants in 2013 . My, how the tables have turned. I cook him a burger and hash browns. Let’s just say I probably enjoyed his food more than he enjoyed mine. But he does leave with an entire container of hash browns for The Optimist’s family meal tomorrow.

11:00 P.M.

The calm before the storm. I throw Guns N’ Roses, Prince, and Beyoncé on the jukebox. A dance party breaks out among the staff. “You got to stay awake somehow,” Keni says.

Brian Finke

11:30 P.M.

I won’t sit down for fear of dozing off. I need the craziness. I need the drunks. Chaos is my only hope for staying awake.

12:25 A.M.

And like that, they start to arrive. They laugh and high-five. The talk is louder and the orders ­bolder than the daytime crowd’s. The witching hour is upon us.

12:45 A.M.

There is a table of middle-aged guys in baby-blue UNC gear and khakis who are celebrating some sort of victory. Perhaps it’s their victory over sobriety—they are wasted. One of them orders hash browns all the way plus a waffle on the side. The F-bombs fly. Luke, a manager, asks them to tone it down. It’s the first rude behavior I’ve seen all day.

Brian Finke

1:15 A.M.

The restaurant is packed. You can’t see the griddle through the hash browns. The waffle station—my station—is cranking. This is a JV post, and one a grill operator would normally oversee while doing other things, but right now it’s my domain, and I’ve found my groove. The waffles are flawless: Their color is an Instagram-worthy hue. Bring it on!

2:00 A.M.

Three college guys order. Five minutes later one of them is hunched over. I’ll come to call this the Waffle House Lean . He’s pale and in bad shape. Magnificent Nikki wets a clean towel, wraps it around his neck, and rubs his shoulders. Amazingly, he perks up, looks woozily at his uneaten food, then disappears into the night with his friends. All hail Nikki, the savior of Unit 1058.

Brian Finke

2:45 A.M.

A baller Denali rolls up outside. Is it Shaquille O’Neal? I’m told he stops by every so often after gigs on TNT. Nope, just eight very mellow guys getting a ton of sandwiches to go.

2:56 A.M.

A group of just-out-of-college types wearing golf shirts and flip-flops stumble in. At this point it’s easy to spot trouble when it walks in the door. Hey, I’ve only worked at the Waffle House for 20 hours and I’ve learned an invaluable skill! They are looking for an argument. Another similar group of flip-flop-wearing dudes ­arrives close behind, this one decked out in Florida State gear. They too are loud and wasted. I try to focus on getting the toast just so, while Luke, B., and Tim put out plate after plate of flawless Waffle House food. Does anyone notice?

Brian Finke

3:15 A.M.

And then the yelling starts. I turn around. The two groups are getting into it. Now, there are two ways to get kicked out of the Waffle House: language and fighting. It escalates, and through the slurred speech I figure out what they’re arguing about: Which school had the more dominant football team in the ’90s, the University of Miami or Florida State. Eventually they take it to the parking lot. I want to follow them, but these waffles aren’t going to plate themselves.

4:00 A.M.

The late rush peters out. The staff and I take stock. Overall it was a pretty tame night. No fistfights or thrown food. No jealous boyfriends showing up. And no one yelling at any of us. Everyone who works at the Waffle House has stories. Tales of being held up, of screaming matches and booze-soaked customers. One of my favorites involves an inebriated guy who threw up on his plate and passed out, only to wake a few minutes later and continue eating his, um, food.

Brian Finke

4:15–6:45 A.M.

I’m hazy on this ­period. I recall a lot of Coca-Cola. There’s an out-of-body experience where I talk like a stoned college freshman about the universe. I only know about this moment of delirium because I watch it later on video. At one point I laugh uncontrollably like an overtired 12-year-old at a slumber party.

6:45 A.M.

And then Randy is back! This time I know his order (cheese omelet, wheat toast, tomatoes instead of grits). The first shift—including Shorty—starts to arrive. It’s a little like Groundhog Day. I’m almost there.

Brian Finke

7:00 A.M.

I made it: 24 hours at the Waffle House! I hug all the amazing people working with me, wash my greasy face in the bathroom sink where I had shaved just the morning before, get into the car, and drive in a daze to my parents’ house. I take a record-breaking shower and sleep in my childhood bed for what feels like days.

So what did I learn? A few things, actually: Being a short-order cook is the hardest job on the planet. Shaving in a public restroom is no fun. And Wham!’s “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” should never be played at 4 a.m. I also learned that people who work at the Waffle House are a kind, tolerant, and professional bunch.

After 24 hours on the inside, I can still say that the Waffle House—all 1,764 of them—is my favorite place to eat . Why? Because more than just a place to eat a meal, the Waffle House is an experience. And that’s what I value the most in restaurants, from four-star spots to taco trucks. In many ways, the place is like America itself: It’s filled with people from all walks of life, all races and classes, looking for a little bit of happiness and a personal connection. Just ask Randy. And while it may not always be perfect, it’s mostly a beautiful thing.

Oh, and it’s delicious. If you haven’t been, what are you waiting for? Trust me. You never forget your first time.

Order This!

1. Arnold Palmer: It’s not on the menu, but any location will happily serve a 50-50 mix of lemonade and unsweetened iced tea.

2. Old-School Omelet: This one is cooked on the griddle as opposed to in a pan. Ask for it stuffed with scattered hash browns.

3. Patty Melt: My first love at the Waffle House and still my go-to lunch and late-night order. Skip the Texas toast and get it on regular white bread instead.

4. Waffle: The pecan version is fine, but I prefer a plain waffle, cooked well-done and—stay with me here—served with a poached or fried egg on top.

5. Cheesy Eggs: There’s a mini cast-iron skillet whose only use is to make these scrambled eggs of the gods, kissed by a generous portion of American cheese.