"Potato Pancakes"...puh-leeze!

This morning's "potato pancakes." I was
further confused by the presence of lettuce.

"Give me your phone," I whispered to Savannah as my order arrived this morning. "No," she whispered back, cutting into her blueberry pancakes, "I am sick of you mocking all of your meals." I sat silently for a moment and considered my breakfast. I knew that I was doomed for disappointment; this wasn't Perkins, after all, But when potato pancakes appear on a menu, I am drawn to it...a siren's call. My friends, Kathy and Amy, of rich Polish backgrounds steeped in culinary history, are already groaning in response to my inevitable Ode to Perkins. But it's true, none can compare. Yet I remain, ever hopeful.

"I see you have potato pancakes on the menu," I said to my harried waitress, "How are they done? I like them crispy." "Well, we'll just crisp them right up for you," she replied in a balanced tone reserved for the mentally unstable. Alarmed, I mentally prepared myself for what was to come. But no amount of visualization could compare to the reality that was now facing me. "Seriously, I need to take a picture of this," I repeated to Savannah whose annoyance with me was further heightened when I asked for butter. That's right...butter. She threw a cube container pat of butter and her phone at me. Glistening with saturated fat, the "pancakes" were now ready for their close-up. That done, I realized that I was teetering on a potato pancake precipice. My fork crunched one in half. "This could go one of two ways, you know," I told my daughter who was, at the time, pretending to eat alone. "I mean, clearly, they are not what one would call conventional potato pancakes, but maybe they're even better. This moment," I waved my speared half at her as she stared, unblinkingly out the window at the parking lot, "This moment could change everything for me." I took a bite and chewed reflectively. A long moment passed. Unable to stand the suspense any longer, Savannah finally tore her gaze away from the parking lot to look at me questioningly, "Well?" "Well," I repeated back, "as you can see by their physical appearance, they are NOT potato pancakes. I would compare them to..." I faltered, at a loss for words, gesturing wildly, my cupped hands making a sliding gesture, "What is that game where you slide disks...it's a puck," I exclaimed, "These are potato pucks!" "So, you're saying you don't like them," Savannah asked. "Not at all," I answered, surprised, breaking another one in half. "My objection relates to truth-in-advertising. This puck is no pancake." And still...Perkins reigns supreme!