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I ordered one pancake in America. The waitress wrote it down and said, "one short stack."
Short. I am a small and humble man. A short stack sounded perfect for me. I waited with a calm heart.
She returned carrying three pancakes, each the size of my face, stacked into a tower, with a block of butter on top sliding down the sides like slow lava.
This was the short one. I did not dare ask what the tall one looked like. Some knowledge a man is not ready for.
I ate for forty minutes. I was not full. I was afraid. The tower did not shrink. I am fairly sure it was growing back faster than I could eat it.
I had to surrender. I left half. In Japan, leaving food is a deep shame. So I leaned in close and apologized to the pancakes directly, in a low voice, one by one.
The waitress asked if I wanted a box. I did not know food could be taken into custody. I declined. I did not want it following me home.
In America, is the short stack truly the small one?
I need time to prepare my spirit before I ever face the tall one.
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