We were newlyweds. Our apartment was cozy. Cozy in a nuclear-fallout sort of way.

We’re talking 600 square feet. Our bathroom was barely big enough to shower in without sustaining a subdural hematoma.

The tenants below us had a flea infestation. Which meant the whole building had fleas. Which meant that I was always pausing mid-conversation to scratch my scalp.

Our lives were otherwise pretty good. My wife taught preschool. Which is code for, “wiping tiny butts.” Ironically, when my wife first interviewed with the school, she flatly told the preschool director, “I’ll do anything but wipe butts.”

The director simply laughed. Within 24 hours on the job, my wife had already wiped eight.

Meantime, my job was working with a friend, hanging commercial gutter. I hated it.

I was the kind of guy you’d bring to a nice cocktail party, and whenever someone asked, “So, what do you do?” I’d answer, “My life is in the gutter.” Whereupon cocktail party guests would ask me to refill their drinks.

But we were happy. And that’s the thing about newlyweds. They’re nonsensically happy. My wife and I were always exhausted, overworked, underpaid, and just generally pooped from trying to make ends meet. We lived on ramen noodles, or if we were feeling especially lavish, Stouffer’s lasagna.

But we were happy.

On the night of my wife’s birthday, however, she wanted to go out to eat, and we couldn’t afford it. We had $27.39 in our bank account. It had been a hard month.

Heck, it had been a hard last few years.

At work that day, I was feeling terrible, thinking about how poor we were. I almost asked one of my friends whether I could borrow money for a nice birthday dinner, but I was not raised to ask for money.

The people I come from would rather live in a refrigerator carton than beg.

So that night, I got home from work early and announced that we were going out for dinner. And my wife was confused.

“What’re you talking about?” my wife said. “We can’t afford a nice dinner.”

I told her to get dressed.

She did. My wife wore her church best. Black skirt, pearl earrings, heels. I wore a sports coat, khakis, and I splashed on some toilet water.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

We drove across town. We parked. We walked into the surgically chilled air of the Waffle House.

The people in the dining room stared at us with funny facial expressions. We looked like we had just attended a funeral.

“How many?” said the waitress.

“Two,” I said. “And we’ll take your nicest table.”

The waitress just looked at me. She was older. Her hair was silver, tied atop her head. Before Waffle House went to their current blue uniforms, they wore these striped deals, á la 1971. That’s what she was wearing.

“It’s my wife’s birthday dinner,” I said.

“I see,” said the waitress.

“I want no expense spared,” I insisted.

The waitress smiled and seemed to understand what was happening here, because a change came over her.

“Right this way, sir,” said the waitress.

She led us toward the table, walking more erectly than most waitresses might. She gestured for us to sit, then disappeared quickly.

She returned with a carton of chocolate milk and two plastic glasses.

“A bottle of our reserve vintage, ma’am,” said the waitress. “Compliments of the kitchen.”

This waitress was a genius. We might as well have been in a Michelin five-star restaurant.

My wife and I toasted our milks.

“Would you like to hear the chef’s specials?” said the waitress.

“Yes, please.”

“Tonight, the kitchen is serving a delicate patty of grilled ground sirloin, cooked to order, served atop an exquisite brioche bun, topped with aged cheese, Videlia onions, iceberg, and a tomato slice. It’s really quite nice.”

“Hmmm,” said my wife, staring at the menu like she was about to purchase real estate. “I think I’ll have the chili.”

“Would you like our ribbon-cut potato croquette on the side?”

“Yes, I think I will,” said my wife.

“And I’ll have the same,” I said, handing the menus back.

“Very good, sir,” said the waitress, taking a grand bow.

The woman returned with a basket of bread. Although, technically, it wasn’t a “basket.” It was a bowl. And the bread was no baguette, it was white toast served with plastic butter packets.

The cook got to work on our order. The whole room came alive with the sizzles and hisses of a flat-top. And when the waitress served our meal, she carried our plates high above her head as though she were wearing white gloves.

The meal was exquisite. After we finished, we were about to leave when the waitress asked us to stay seated.

In a moment, the employee door burst open. The cook and three waitresses emerged from the rear of the restaurant, carrying a danish of the day on a small plate. There was a single candle.

They were all singing “Happy Birthday.” The whole restaurant joined in. Truckers, welders, pipe fitters, and a few off-duty cops all sang along.

People often write to me and ask why I write about Waffle House so much.

Well, now you know why.