Although we’ve lived in Naperville for 17 years, the first time my husband and I set foot in the United States was on our honeymoon 43 years ago. It was a magical time but, as usual, one of my fondest memories is connected to food.
Visiting the U.S. was like stepping into a film. Everyone in England grew up watching American TV shows and movies so we were very familiar with what life was like on this side of the pond. Your cars were twice the size of ours, clothes brighter and everyone was so warm and friendly, unlike us stuffy Brits, so it was particularly fun when we had a chance to visit our first “diner.”
We were in Los Angeles and keen to experience our first American breakfast. Back home, a “full English,” as it’s known, consists of a couple of slices of thick greasy bacon, a pork sausage, mushrooms, tom’ar’toes (not tom’A’toes), fried eggs and fried bread. If you’re unlucky, it also comes with a slice of black pudding, a polite name for blood sausage. The drink of choice was normally a mug of tea.
To me everything in America was bigger and better than in England. The TV shows were funnier, the sky brighter. I was completely in awe of everything, which is why what you might consider mundane was amazing to me.
When we saw a diner at the side of the road with a big blue shiny roof, I knew it would be wonderful. Instead of having to find our own seat, a waitress in a neat dress and apron showed us where to sit. The table was already laid and, best of all, there was a small dish of butter pats and jelly plus the ubiquitous pitcher of maple syrup.
“Wow, they really do have these,” I exclaimed to my new husband, who only a week in was beginning to realize what he had let himself in for. “Look how the cover opens over the spout. It’s so clever!”
Before I could even pick up the large, plastic-covered menu, our waitress appeared with two white mugs and a carafe full of steaming hot coffee.
“Ooo, yes please!” I cried with more enthusiasm than a child being asked if he wanted dessert before dinner.
The mugs were perfect, just the right size for me. Like Goldilocks, I don’t like my cups too big or too small. And don’t get me started on the coffee. Not having a taste for the strong stuff, I like my coffee like my men, full of beans with a hint of sweetness.
Sipping on my drink, it was time to wrangle a menu that was larger than any I’d ever seen.
“Look at all these choices,” I extolled. “It’s going to take me until lunchtime to make up my mind.”
Although I noticed the name “International” on the top of the menu, I couldn’t find any global dishes listed other than French toast. Undeterred, I went straight for the most American thing I could think of. Pancakes!
Obviously, we eat pancakes in England. In fact, they even have their own special day. Shrove Tuesday, or Mardi Gras as it’s known here, is also called Pancake Day. Brits rush to use up eggs, flour and milk before Lent in the unlikely event anyone would consider them a treat before Easter. Pancake races are held in some parts of the country and much merriment — and cleaning — is to be had trying to toss them as high as you can from the frying pan.
Thanks to my extensive research (“Bewitched,” “The Waltons” and a documentary on American obesity), I knew they’d be nothing like the ones I was used to. And what better way to break the diet I’d been on for the last eight months before our wedding?
“Should I have a short stack or whatever the opposite is?” I asked Grumpy over the top of my menu.
“Tall stack?” he ventured. “Probably best to stick with the short version. It might be quicker to cook. I’m hungry.”
As I soon learned, all food delivery in American restaurants is quick, especially when you’re trying to have a night out on a one-course meal.
“Here you are, honey,” said my waitress, carefully placing a plate the size of Rhode Island in front of me.
I was so excited to be called honey, even by a complete stranger, that I barely noticed I was missing a knife and fork. Fortunately, my server did.
“Oh, you’re missing your silverware. Let me go get it,” she said as she danced off.
“Silverware?” said Grumpy, confused. “What’s she talking about?”
In England, silverware can be anything from a silver-plated salamander to a Russian tea urn, but never knives, forks and spoons, especially when they’re made of stainless steel. Before I had a chance to rummage around in my purse for my guidebook, she returned with the answer, wrapped up in a red and white napkin.
I reached for a couple of butter portions, using the knife to spread them over the spongy, fluffy comforters in front of me. Then I pulled back the cover on the syrup and swirled it over the top. The steam from the pancakes melted the butter, pulling in the sweet syrup like a sparrow drowning in quicksand. Delicious.
It was only when we moved to the United States permanently that I saw the same wonderful restaurant again and was excited to give it another try. By now you’ve probably had enough clues to realize I’ve been fantasizing about IHOP, which used to be known as the International House of Pancakes.
Time is a funny thing, and it’s true the decades may have clouded my memories. But in those days, to someone on her first trip to her dream location, it really was a marvelous place.
Hilary Decent is a freelance journalist who moved to Naperville from England in 2007. She can be reached at Hilarydecent@gmail.com.
