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I ate pizza in a popular chain joint, Blaze. The restaurant was in Morrisville and had a spot locked in an open air mall. You pick your toppings at the counter and I asked the guy for oregano. He pinched it and sprinkled like we were somewhere richer.
One thing I miss is living in a place full of small business. In the NC triangle, the small places get boxed in by big chains. There’s a certain kind of pride to being a successful franchisee, but that pride comes from executing someone else’s dream. Good pizza, no originality.
I once ate lunch at a Huddle House near Asheville. I was traveling back from Knoxville with my dad. My grandmother was in a nursing home in Knoxville and she was dying. We visited her a lot back then. I’d taken a few days off of middle school.
It was a solemn trip, a long trip, we got caught in bad mountain traffic. That’s when we pulled off to eat. I remember the cold red awning and bright white lights in the Huddle House. I remember weak eggs and a friendly waitress.
It was comfortable. Corporate and perfect. Right then, that’s what my dad and I needed. I guess the cookie cutter and familiar is not all bad.
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Huddle House is the host of family and friends, brought together by good food, cooked-to-order and served from the heart.
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