A couple weeks ago, on the way back from Eastern Washington, me and my buddies stopped for breakfast at a Family Pancake House. I capitalize it because that was the actual name, not just the type of establishment. That's the kind of place I can get behind, y'know? Call it what it is. And they didn't stop winning me over there. The entire staff was Mexican. Not just the cooks, or busboys. Everyone. Well, everyone except for this waiter that appeared to be about eleven years old and had red hair that looked like a hat. Kind of like this:
But, y'know, eleven, and, um, human.
So, we get the menus, and what do i see? Bacon Waffles. Not bacon AND waffles. Bacon Waffles. It's exactly what it sounds like; waffles with bacon crumbled into the batter. Awesome. They also had Ham Waffles, but why get ham when you can have bacon? God, I'm hungry.
Not only were they fucking delicious, they were time efficient to boot!! No time wasted going back and forth; bacon, then waffle, then bacon, then waffle. Bacon Waffle, Bacon Waffle, Bacon Waffle. I'm a busy woman. That's just how I roll.