The smell of bacon grease and waffles wafted out the door as Bill Hobbs stepped into a Waffle House in Wilmington, North Carolina, with daughter Kenzi Tippetts and granddaughter Grace. It was a tradition to visit the predominantly southern chain restaurant on the day hurricanes are expected to make landfall. And Hurricane Florence was coming.

In front of him, Delta employee Jennifer Garay, 47, was waiting for a booth after having called ahead to make sure the restaurant was open. Not only because she was hungry, but because it’s a sort of barometer of how bad Florence might be for Wilmington and the rest of the Carolina coastline.

The Waffle House in downtown Wilmington, North Carolina, remains open on 13 September as rain and wind from Hurricane Florence shakes trees in front of the restaurant. Photograph: Khushbu Shah/The Guardian

“That’s a southern thing. If Waffle House is closed, you should be concerned. That’s the first place we called this morning, to make sure Waffle House was open,” she said, eyeing the grill overcrowded with eggs, bacon and sausage.

She’s not alone in that calculation. A 2011 Fema blog entry explained how Craig Fugate, Florida’s former department of emergency management administrator, measured hurricane levels by something called the Waffle House test: when a Waffle House stays open during a storm and they offer the full menu, the index remains green. If it offers a limited menu, the index turns yellow. And when a Waffle House must close, the index goes red.

Two of Wilmington’s Waffle House restaurants had limited menus on Thursday morning and a line had formed outside the downtown establishment.

Waffle House takes the responsibility seriously, tweeting earlier in the week, “The ⁦@WaffleHouse⁩ Storm Center is activated and monitoring #Florence. Plan ahead and be safe.”

The ⁦@WaffleHouse⁩ Storm Center is activated and monitoring #Florence. Plan ahead and be safe. pic.twitter.com/UOBi5oZRRi — Waffle House News (@WaffleHouseNews) September 11, 2018

Ahead of the impending disaster in North Carolina, Waffle House employees cycled customers in and out of booths with charm and wit.

Ryan, a volunteer server at Waffle House during the hurricane – he can’t give his last name as he’s not allowed to talk to the media – dished up bacon for Hobbs and quipped, “The last bacon in town”, as he warned the table to watch the hot plate. He has sent his kids off to the mountains while he stays at the Holiday Inn across the street, where Waffle House is putting up employees.

It’s waffles all around in the booth, slathered in butter and syrup.

Ryan tells another booth he’ll be out of ice within the hour before coming to refill coffee and water for Hobbs and the Tippetts.

“It’s a tradition,” Hobbs said.

This isn’t the first major hurricane for the Wilmington native, either. When he was 12 years old, he delivered newspapers the morning Hurricane Hazel destroyed the Carolina coast in 1954. Still, Florence worries him because of the potential for flash flooding.

Hobbs says he thinks a few other places might stay open, like The Harp in downtown. But, across town, siblings Pam Battson and Patrick Ogelvie wait for a table outside another Waffle House because The Harp doesn’t have a cook until later in the afternoon.

And with the coming “monster” of a storm, as North Carolina’s governor, Roy Cooper, called Florence the night before, it’ll be their last hot meal for a while.

“We drove around and almost every place is boarded up, including their doors,” Battson explained. She’s looking for a shot of grits because, “We’re in the south, woman.”

After breakfast, the pair are heading home to wait it out. “Waiting for old Flo to roll in,” Ogelvie said.

Jeff Egyp heads to a Waffle House in Wilmington, North Carolina, to see if the restaurant was still open and check the menu. Photograph: Khushbu Shah/The Guardian

A little while later, three young Wilmington residents, decked out in American flag-printed shorts, one man sporting a wig and an American flag, rolled by to head to the Waffle House.

“Just want to see what they have and if they’re open,” the one in a wig shouts.

Back on the other side of town, Hobbs reaches to pay the tab. Before he can, server Ryan walks by, grabbing bills as he goes.

“Someone picked up everyone’s tab,” he yelled. Bellies full and traditions fulfilled, the wait for Flo begins.