IHOP

I had lunch at the local International House Of Pancakes today, and yet again, I did not see one even low level functionary of the littlest of countries. You would think (if you thought like me) that a truly "international" pancake house would have at least the King of Liechtenstein as a greeter or gladhander of some sort to reassure us that we were eating in a swanky place.

No luck. So I sat down and had my usual, the Chef salad and onion rings. I know, of course that the real chef doesn't really make ALL of the "Chef salads" but rather operates in a supervisory manner to insure that the "Chef salad" is served in a uniform and reliable fashion. Don't doubt that those IHOP officials are on top of things and they want you to have a fine dining experience while you plotz in their restaurant.

There is a problem, however. I never order the pancakes when I eat at IHOP (I shouldn't say "never" "never", because I will order them when the waitress agrees to smother each pancake between the breasts of her décolletage. I ain't been too successful with that lately). The reason I rarely order the pancakes is that I read that the pancake guy lives in a little shack under the griddle, and that he has refused (on principle, I'll bet) to pay his toilet tax or to make good on the bill for his pay toilet that he has in his apartment. Normally, when a man or woman refuses to pay the toilet fees incumbent upon us all, I turn my head and express my disgust away from the oncoming wind, but in this case, when the man directly responsible for cooking the pancakes at the IHOP is the miscreant, I defer from ordering what I would expect is their special. So I ate the salad. I spit one bite out to show my solidarity with those fighting the toilet tax and the onerousness of the pay toilet industry.

Joe Postove