You Call These Grits?
©2025, George J. Irwin. All rights reserved.

About halfway along the most direct route between where we lived and where my parents did, there was a franchised location of a certain well-known quick-service sit-down restaurant, which specializes in being open all the time and serving mostly breakfast items. This particular chain was also a customer of the first client I had when I started my computer consulting business, back in the Previous Century. This is how I knew of them even though they had zero locations in my home state. And there was only this one location on the route. There just weren’t many of them above the Mason-Dixon Line.

I was very happy to have this option available because there was rarely any argument about stopping there and our order was usually the same every time. We were usually in and out in around a half hour, which is a good cycle time where you’re dealing with two small children. As a bonus, they enjoyed sitting at the counter and watching their meal being made.

It got to the point where we were recognized and welcomed by the staff. This was unusual because we weren’t there that often and because staff at such an operation turns usually over rather quickly. But staff tended to stay at this particular location. We saw the same faces behind the counter and waiting on tables for years.

One visit on the way down to my parents was not quite as smooth as usual. It wasn’t the fault of any of the employees.

When we arrived, it was after the peak lunch time, but it was much busier than it usually was at that time of day. Every table was full, the counter was full, and there was a short line of patrons patiently waiting. There were four servers and three cooks, one of whom was the manager on duty as well. In a word, though, they were swamped: they could have used another few people to help out. We got a smile, a hello and an apology from the employees who recognized us as we took our place in the queue for a place to sit. I explained to the kids that we might not get our favorite places at the counter and we’d have to take what we could get. And, knowing that they would still get to eat what they wanted, were alright with this.

No sooner had I said that than four patrons, having finished their meals, left their seats at the counter, paid, made sure the server had her tip, and walked out to continue their journey to wherever they were going. And much to my surprise, the parties in front of us in line all wanted a table, not counter seating. So we got to jump the queue and take the seats that had opened up, with their blessing and, very possibly, their understanding that small children and lines at a restaurant weren’t necessarily compatible.

We sat down, and when the server, one of the young women we knew from previous visits, we gave her our order straight away. I told her that it was OK if it took a little longer. And it did take a little longer given the number of meals to be made that were ahead of ours, but it wasn’t that much of a delay, all things considered.

We were just about finished eating when from behind us came a booming voice demanding to know: "YOU CALL THESE GRITS?!?"

Ah, grits. I had tried them exactly once, at this very establishment in fact, when a very tired server forgot that I said it was OK to leave them out of my breakfast order. For the uninitiated, grits are a form of porridge, made from either maize or hominy, the latter being maize treated to remove the outer wall, cooked in either milk or salted water. Let’s just say I’m not a fan. I know plenty of other people are.

Apparently, though, the person behind me wasn’t a fan either, at least not of the ones he was served. Just in case there was any doubt about this, he repeated even more loudly: "YOU CALL THESE GRITS?!?"

Which got everyone’s attention, and not in a good way. I turned around as far as I could in my rotating counter chair and saw what I surmised to be a middle-aged man in not exactly exquisite physical shape, standing over the booth and far too close to the same server who had just helped us. He preceded to go on a high volume rant about how these couldn’t possibly be the grits he ordered and they didn’t look anything like grits and why did she bring these non-grits and didn’t anyone here know how to prepare grits and how do you even know what grits looked like… and that brought the server to tears. She dropped to the floor the plate she was holding, and hurried to the corridor on the opposite side of the restaurant, which led to the back exit door used by employees. She was followed by two of the other workers.

But You Call These Grits Guy wasn’t done yet.

He went from one occupied booth to another, starting at the end closest to me and stopping at each customer, showing these apparently Not Grits in an impolite way, demanding to know whether any of the other diners thought that these were grits. Impolite is probably not quite the right word; he was just about shoving the bowl of You Call These Grits in people’s faces.

My kids and my wife went quickly past the point of just being not amused by this to the point of high anxiety. My wife gave me a look that I knew meant that We Should Get Out Of Here, Now. But I wondered whether that was a good idea considering that the ranting and raving about Grits was heading back in our direction. I hoped he wouldn’t pull this "Look At This" stunt on us.

The majority of the scholarly writings about what happens when a human, and numerous other animals, encounter danger describes the reaction as "Fight or Flight." But there’s also a third option: "Freeze." (And even lesser known: "Fawn" and "Flop," the latter of which could also be described as "Faint.")

My wife was clearly thinking Flight, and the kids were probably leaning toward that choice as well. But I was going more for Freeze, since this clown was between us and the door and I did not think an escalation would be a good idea. I was not particularly good at hand to hand combat of any sort, so Fight was not a reasonable choice. Perhaps if we just ignored him, he would go away. We were not yet at the time in America where we needed to automatically include the possibility that He Might Have A Gun.

But we were going to have to make a selection quickly, considering that the ranting and raving about Grits was heading back in our direction, still demanding to know from other patrons How These Could Be Grits, after having reached the far end of the restaurant. Turning around to face front, I hoped he wouldn’t accost us. So I guess I did choose "Freeze."

Out of the corner of my eye, I observed that a large, well-built man next to me, who was clearly next in line to be asked If These Were Grits, turned around and displayed a wordless glare at the complainer, thoroughly discouraging any further interaction. I guess that unlike me, said customer silently communicated that he would select "Fight" as his response. Fortunately, that wasn’t necessary. Perhaps Mister You Call These Grits decided that he had collected a statistically valid sample of the patrons and didn’t need to continue. I suppressed a giggle at that thought, happy that he hadn’t challenged anyone in our party, particularly the kids, or the guy next to us.

Meanwhile, the manager on duty, who had disappeared around the corner to console the server who was first accosted about These Not Being Grits, had returned. He said something to the other cooks, for which progress on meals had ground to a halt, that I believe included the word "police." The four servers, all young women, had apparently left the premises, at least temporarily, and I didn’t blame them.

After having polled almost the entire audience, Mister You Call These Grits sat back down at his table and proceeded to continue his high-volume rant about how this was a horrible place and they have no idea how to make grits and I’ll bet they’ve never been to the South and what business do they have working in a restaurant if they didn’t know how to make grits and it was a good thing he didn’t order steak and eggs because that would have been even worse and he was never coming back to this place.

Not three minutes later two squad cars arrived, and four uniformed Law Enforcement Personnel briskly entered the restaurant. Several moments later Mister You Call These Grits was on his way out of the building, surrounded by the four policemen and accompanied by applause from the customers.

I paid our bill, left a larger than usual tip, and after a suitable time to assure ourselves that we would not wind up as collateral damage from a disorderly conduct incident outside the place, returned to our car and continued our journey.

The return trip had us back at the same eating establishment not forty-eight hours later, mainly for the usual reason that it was an easy stop, and partially because I wanted to know what happened.

Our server for this meal was one of the four who had also been there when "You Call These Grits?" was boomed across the floor and brought one of their own considerable distress. We found out that after being yelled at, that server was allowed to go home even though it was still pretty busy the rest of the day. She had already been scheduled to be off for the next couple of days, so she hadn’t been back, but the others checked in and she said she was alright. Hopefully she was telling the truth.

And, we were told, Mister You Call These Grits had a few outstanding arrest warrants in another state, so he was probably right about never coming back.

I wondered for only a moment if the grits were any good in the criminal justice system.

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