Of beer pancakes, Dad and the psychology of breakfast

They say that smell is more closely linked to memory than any other sense. It stands to reason that taste, being closely related to smell, would also have the same effect. Simply smelling or tasting something can trigger trigger vivid memories and emotions.

My question is this: Can it be reversed? Can a memory of something be so strong that you can actually smell and taste it?

Wednesday night, I was settling in to watch a hockey game and I had the overwhelming smell and taste of pancakes. Not just any pancakes. My Dad's beer pancakes.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Who would waste perfectly good beer making pancakes? Then, I'd introduce you to the resourceful man my Dad was. And tell you about his habit of creating happy accidents and adhering to family tradition.

Like all of Dad's stories, the story about how beer pancakes came into existence changed depending on whether we were standing around a campfire, breakfast table or poker table. This is the version I heard most often:

We were at deer camp one year and whoever was supposed to bring milk didn't. (Probably him.) Everyone was supposed to bring a 5-gallon jug of water, but not everyone did. Pretty sure I brought one. You know I don't like going without water. (True story. He'd forget toilet paper, but never water.) So the day it was my turn to make breakfast, we didn't have any milk and we were short on water. But we had plenty of beer, so I figured I'd give it a shot. The rest is history. Everyone liked them so much, I started making them all the time.

Dad started making them at home when I was two or three years old. He probably didn't make them as often as I think he did, but if you ask me now, I'd probably tell you he made them most of the time he made breakfast on the weekend.

I guess he probably made them to remind himself of a simpler time in his life, and to bring back memories of being with his buddies and their new families in an Eastern Oregon deer camp for a week. They'd hunt all day, drink beer and play poker or sitting on strap lawn chairs or logs around a campfire all night to see who could spin the best yarn about catching the biggest trout, the most smelt or the monster buck that got away.

My memories of beer pancakes center around deer camp and the smell of the scrub cedar and sumac that surrounded the clearing along Middle Caney Creek in Chautauqua County in Southern Kansas. My dad cooked on a cast-iron griddle on an ancient Coleman stove he probably built from spare parts he acquired in the early 60s when he worked for that company.

Now, it's been at least 25 years since I've had Dad's beer pancakes. But on Wednesday night, the sense of smell and taste hit me so hard, I knew I had to make them this weekend. They weren't as "beer-y" - or as good - as Dad's, but still had that familiar tangy-sweetness I remember.

Maybe beer pancakes simply taste better after a morning spent sitting in a tree. Or maybe they're better when someone else makes them while telling you about how he created the recipe and you laugh, not because it's the fifth time you've heard this version of the story, but because you can see his enjoyment in making them while telling the story.

Or maybe it was just the company.

Service so bad, you just have to laugh

Having worked in the industry, I understand bad days happen. Things beyond your control can affect the service you give your guests. But what happened last night was just comical.

I understand that everyone can have a bad day when they're waiting tables, especially when they're busy. But there's simply no reason for what happened. After putting menus on the table, there was a snafu at every contact. I felt like we were on a TV show to see how long it would be before we walked out.

Here's a bit of background: Having owned a bar, I'm a fairly observant customer. I watch how things happen. My wife and I don't get out without the kids very often, but when we do, all we want to do is relax and enjoy the experience. We're very patient customers, low-maintenance, and having worked in the industry, we're big believers in tip karma, even if we don't work in the industry any longer. Even if you tell me the Cardinals suck and I shouldn't be wearing a St. Louis hat in Kansas City when the Royals are in the playoffs, you're still getting 20% if you give decent service. (Yes, that actually happened.)

60 Minutes in a bar
Ashley and I wanted to watch a hockey game and walked into a half empty bar and grill with flat screen TVs mounted everywhere. A UFC fight and basketball games were on half of them; the other half had "60 Minutes" on. The only thing worse than watching "60 Minutes" is watching it with no sound. In a bar.

The server greeted us and I asked if she could see about getting a hockey game. She said "Yes!" and took our drink order. Here's where it started to all go wrong.

About 10 minutes later, she brought two beers. Mine was correct; Ashley's was not.

Five minutes later, the correct drink arrives. Cool. How about that hockey game? "Sorry, I forgot to ask. I'll ask now." We see the manager is in the pool table area banging away on his cell phone. She talks to him and walks away. He looks pissy.

At this point, Ashley notices her glass has a crack in it. It takes about five minutes till the server reappears to tell us the manager is checking on the hockey game. We tell her the glass is cracked and she apologizes. "It happens," Ash says and she goes to get another beer.

She brings it and we order a buffalo chicken flatbread. Maybe things will smooth out now. "60 Minutes" is still on. She swings by and says they don't have the NHL package. "That's OK. Can we get a basketball game? ESPN, maybe?"

She speaks to the manager again. He looks a combination of put out and flustered, with just a touch of douchebag thrown in. They both disappear.

Finally, ESPN is on. Our flatbread arrives 10 minutes later and she said she needed to get us silverware, plates and napkins. She disappears quickly, even though the servers' station is only 20 feet away.

At that point, we noticed she brought a chicken pesto flatbread and not the buffalo chicken we ordered. She's nowhere to be seen.

After five minutes, I spot her by the servers' station where they keep silverware and napkins and plates and stuff. She is talking to the manager who is still paying very close attention to his phone. She notices I am standing and gives me a cursory smile and goes right back to talking to the manager douchebag.

The wheels come off
I motioned her over and let her know we're leaving. I tell her I don't want to get her in trouble, but there's no reason for a failure at every point of contact. She said they were short-staffed (lie) and really busy (she had four tables).

Remember the part where I said we start at 20%? That goes out the window if you lie to us.

I explained to her how this experience never got on track. After the wrong beer and the cracked glass, I would have made sure everything was right for the guest, which just didn't happen. And even the douchebag manager couldn't be bothered to do something as simple as change the channel for a half-empty bar after being asked two or three times by a member of his staff. It made us feel like they didn't care about their guests at all.

I told her we'd pay for the two beers, but since the flatbread wasn't what we ordered, we wanted it removed. She brought us the tab, which was $13.26. I gave her a $20. I told Ash I didn't even want to leave a tip, but I couldn't not leave one. "Just leave a dollar and the change. That's still 15%. Maybe she'll get the picture since you talked to her," she said.

The server returned with change of $6. Not even getting the change correct seemed like a fitting end to a less-than-perfect experience. I looked at Ashley and she said, "You just have to laugh. Let's go somewhere else."

Open Letter to My Dad

Dear Dad,
It's been a long time. I'm not saying that to be an asshole or anything, but it's been 11 years since I got that phone call at 6:30 in the morning on November 12, 2001.

We knew it was November 11 when you left, because there's no way you made it to midnight that day. You worked around the farm most of the day, and I know for you, that day was probably about as perfect as you could get. In a place that you loved, doing the things that you loved, working around the farm, cooking up some venison, having a few

and some of your favorite deer camp "horse dervies" which no one in their right mind would eat

By the way, that pronunciation died with you. But I'm bringing it back. Along with the camel joke.

For the first time since you left, November 11 was Veteran's Day for me. I didn't think much about it being your last day. And I know you wouldn't want it any other way. "Ten years is a long time to grieve," you'd say.

Like almost every other thing you said, you'd probably be right.

But the thing is, there's not a day goes by that I don't think about you. Everyone misses you and still talks about you like you're still here, even eleven years later. That's strong, Dad.

Dad with his little buddy, Levi, sporting the do-rags.

I'll let you know that I finally visited you. Twice now. The first time, I lasted about 15 seconds. But it broke the ice. This past Memorial Day, I went with Toby, his buddy, Mike and Ashley and we drank a beer with you. For you, I guess is the more appropriate term.

I still haven't been down to the farm. I may never go, even though I know it is a special place you chose because you wanted to retire there someday. Someday just came way too fast.

I know what you'd say about that, too, Dad: "I wanted this to be a place where you boys could go and take your families. You should go."

But I really only know it as the place where you died and would only know it without you. Toby and Duke know the place with you there. They got to see how you looked at it and talked about it.

I know that's where your spirit is. Danny has said he's seen you there. I hope he's right. But he knows the place with you there, too. I think that's why I've been reluctant to go: I'm afraid I won't see you there. It would just be the place where your journey ended and I don't want that. Hopefully someday, I'll be able to make that trip and walk your land with you.

I miss the way you'd laugh. The way you'd grin, with the glint in your eyes because you knew something funny was coming. There was that snort thing you'd do. Then three or four chortles that could be mistaken for a coughing fit. Now I'm thinking that watching you laugh is the reason I try to make people laugh.


I think what I miss most about you is how damn philosophical you were. I'm not really sure that others know that about you. But there was just so much I learned about how to be a man shooting pool with you. You taught me more about life playing pool and drinking a few beers than all of my professors put together. You were my greatest teacher. I want you to know that.

I guess I've come to the reason for this: I'm working through some things that I need to change about myself. I don't have your patience, and I sorely wish I knew your secret. I don't have your wisdom, even though I'm as old now as you were when I graduated high school. I'm still not half the man you were, but I'm trying, Dad. I'm trying.

So for me, November 11 was Veteran's Day. I'm fairly certain you'd be comfortable with that. But your birthday's coming up next weekend. That's always been harder for me. I don't think November 19 will just be Saturday.

Love you,
Number one son (I even remember the Charlie Chan reference)
Joel

Guys Weekend - Gambling, Booze, Strippers and Hockey... What More Could You Want?

My wife got me a great birthday present this year. Ashley and Kerri, my buddy Jim's wife, made plans before Thanksgiving to send us to St. Louis for a hockey game. Jim's birthday is a week before mine and he's a big Blues fan, too. They got us tickets, made hotel reservations and sent us out for Guys Weekend.

When we found out, it was all we talked about. Guys Weekend was going to be filled with poker, booze, cigars and strip clubs. We joked about how anything that happened in St. Louis stayed in St. Louis.

I think that's what separates guys in their twenties from guys in their forties. We didn't do anything even remotely like that.

Don't get me wrong... we drank a lot, but we didn't puke in a parking lot. We ate crap all weekend. White Castle for lunch on the way in; chili dogs and beer at the hotel Happy Hour before the game. The healthiest thing we ate was nachos, I think.

We even went completely the opposite way of any Guys Weekend when we escorted a lady and her son from the hotel to the arena. They were from Indiana and it was the kid's first NHL game, first time in St. Louis. She asked if they could walk with us. She was a little worried that maybe something would happen, not knowing that the area around the arena is probably the safest spot in the entire city on game night.

No problem, we said, in essence violating every Guys Weekend rule about gentlemanly conduct.

The Blues won big over the Rangers and we hit an Irish bar to celebrate. A DJ started cranking out dance tunes and we left, what with all the women dancing and all. We headed to the casino.

We played poker until the wee hours. I drank till last call. The chili dogs disagreed with Jim and he quit drinking much earlier. (What a girl!) We were definitely more sober than our cab driver who kept moving into turn lanes that were actually oncoming traffic.

We only slept about four hours and made it to a poker tournament across town. The drive back to Kansas City involved a lot of caffeine and sunflower seeds to keep us awake.

All in all, it was a good weekend, albeit a pretty tame one. We're pretty sure we need to make it an annual birthday event. Maybe in your forties, that's what you need instead of craziness. We don't have to tell the wives it wasn't the wild weekend we made it out to be. But I think they have their suspicions, though.

They're asking to go next year.