I have an utmost appreciation for dining. On vacations, my biggest concern is not seeing this historical monument or lying on that beach, but rather where we are getting our next meal. From what people eat, we can infer so much; the biggest difference between cultures can be found in the spiciness of their food, the saltiness of their sauces, the importance of each meal. I remember trips in flavors and I remember home in one particular taste: Denny’s white chocolate chip strawberry pancakes. Maybe that strips some of my epicure status, but I would be lying if I claimed that my mother’s homemade soup or my stepbrother’s raspberry gelato were more memorable to me than my solitary trips to America’s favorite breakfast chain diner.
In the most predictable way possible, I like to eat my feelings. It doesn’t matter which emotion I find myself in; if I am feeling something, so too am I feeling hungry. When I am upset or confused or delighted or guilty or greedy or stressed out or just plain bored, the only food I crave is white chocolate chip strawberry pancakes. The times I am most successful in making coherent thoughts out of abstract emotions is when creamy white chocolate and sugar coated fruit is melded together in my mouth to form a boldly uniform taste.
It’s true. Denny’s has gotten me through some of the experiences I naively called tough at the time. Although I know any of my overbearingly altruistic friends would open their homes to me if need be, there is no four walls I would rather surround a distraught version of myself with than those of the slightly chipped, burnt orange paint at Denny’s Pancake House. So, usually, I sit in a single booth eating my pancakes without talking anyone other than Angie, the middle-aged waitress who pours my frequently emptied water.
More than the deliciously fruity flavor I so often crave, physically being at Denny’s cheers me up. As alone as I may seem in my corner-hugging booth, the company I am with is among the most reassuring I have known. From the elderly couple whose years together have occupied every conversation worth having and sits silently, avoiding each other’s gaze, to the single mother of four, who still wears her nurse’s scrubs during what the children refer to as their “family fun night”, to the ageing businessman whose distracted eyes glance constantly at his watch, dreading the moment he has to return to wherever he calls home, I am surrounded with an oddly familiar company.
Who am I - a well-educated, well-provided for teenager- to be lamenting over anything when these people are experiencing nearly my lifetime’s worth of troubles in a single day? Watching a family rejoice over a full meal, watching a pair of time-worn companions more interested in a fork than in each other makes whatever it was I came here to think about suddenly seems laughable. My meal, if not my life, is so carefree compared to the people who surround me in this 24-hour dining establishment, as far as a meal’s worth of time can tell me. And yet, they all seem pretty happy. Denny’s is their big night out or a part of their drudging routine. Denny’s is my greatest reality check.
So, for every bight of pleasure I get out of fine dining, there is no restaurant I would more strongly recommend then the one impudently advertised off of Kingery Highway. Because, until I can find someone who can meld two parts white chocolate with three parts strawberries to create one part heaven, until I can find someone who can follow it up with an aftertaste of “cheer up, your life is pretty good,” I will continue to rely on Denny’s to be my 24 hour heart attack inducer and seven days a week heartbreak cure.
Whoever edited that did a pretty awesome job.
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