So Many Problems, So Little Pie

Very few of us would argue that the world seems to be going to hell in a handbasket, which is something my grandfather used to say and probably something his grandfather said. (His grandfather remembered the Civil War, so the fellow probably wasn’t wrong.)

What we have is very few answers as to why we are in this state. Last week, I stumbled upon the answer.

Pie.

Yes, that lovely, simple desert – or main course if it is filled with meat. Pie is the answer to our problems and I didn’t even realize this until my Sweetie and I went looking for a slice with a scoop of ice cream after a nice dinner and an aborted attempt at miniature golf.

The ancient Egyptians had pie about 4,000 years ago, archaeologists agree. Pies are painted on the walls of the tombs of pharaohs, so you got to figure that the pie had been around for a while. But it was the wonderful Greeks who added fruit into the mix. Aristophanes mentions pies in a couple of his plays. Through the ages, pies have been around and played a significant role in every culture. Because of the simplicity of its construction – either a single crust or double crust with something stuffed in it – pies are usually what the bourgeois considered peasant food.

We all know what the elite eat, don’t we? Cake, of course.

I have nothing against cake as long as it is either German chocolate or pineapple upside down. Cake gets all the glory for birthday parties and when someone at the office retires. But how many times do you head for an all-night diner to get a slice of cake? If you do, you are some sort of freak.

The thing about pie, though, is that is about more than pie. Having a piece of pie is about sitting across a table from someone and talking. I can’t count the number of times that I have ended up in a diner somewhere in the middle of the night talking to my friends while we drank coffee (iced tea for me), ate warm apple pie with ice cream on top and solved all the world’s problems.

I remember nights working late when I was an HVAC guy for base housing on an Air Force Base. Winter would bring us a storm and the whole crew of plumbers, carpenters and electricians were working our asses off to make sure furnaces that had stopped working were fixed and broken water lines were repaired. It was hard work and after we were done for the night, we gathered at a Carrow’s restaurant just off base for a slice of pie and the fellowship of a group of people who had been through hardship together.

I remember that same Carrow’s, or maybe Goody’s, or even Village Inn, after rehearsals for stage plays in which I was an actor. I remember nights of dancing at the clubs and meeting with friends to sit around a table and talk about how to make the world better.

All the Goody’s and Carrow’s locations shut down years ago, replaced by coffee shops and gas stations. Village Inn isn’t open past 9 p.m. Truck stops – which used to be a great place to get a slice – have converted their diners into a food court serving fast food tacos, burgers and pizza.

A world I grew into adulthood in has all but disappeared. I’ve watched it slowly happen, one Starbucks and brew pub at a time. I understand that times and tastes change. I get that and I’m not about to blame one generation or the next for the demise of an all-night diner. I know that one day they will feel the same way I do when the times and tastes change again.

But, dammit! You should be able to get a slice of pie with a scoop of ice cream at 9 p.m. on a Friday night!

It hadn’t been first time Sweetie and I had headed out looking for pie, but this time seemed a bit more difficult. The first stop was Village Inn, which was five minutes from closing. The crew looked at us through the glass door while counting out the register. The look in their eyes was on of a hope that we would not come in and order anything so close to closing time. We gave them a break and headed to a recently reopened IHOP.

A couple of years ago, all the IHOPs in our medium-sized Southwestern city closed. I think I read in the paper that the owner of the franchises pulled out or went to jail or got a divorce. It didn’t matter that much to me because there are plenty of places to get what IHOP serves.

One of these old franchises recently reopened, unfortunately with a little less enthusiasm than you would expect from a place that sells pancakes named Rooty-Tooty Fresh and Fruity. When we walked into the place we were greeted by a fellow who looked as though he had walked in off the street and took up a position behind the greeting podium as a way to deal with his incredible hangover.

He looked up at us and said nothing, leaning forward over the podium on his elbows. A girl came by, limping badly and lamenting how she wasn’t feeling well and could hardly wait to clock out and go home. Finally, a third staff member came out, also limping, and showed us to the only booth in the empty restaurant that had been cleaned.

“What can I get you to drink, honey?” At least she got that part right. Waitresses always call me honey. I think it’s in the employee manual.

She put the menus down in front of us and went off to fetch a coffee and iced tea. It took her a while to return, so we had a chance to look through the menu. Did you know that IHOP doesn’t have pie on its menu? Yeah, I didn’t either.

We debated a bit on what to do. I didn’t want pancakes – they are cake after all. I certainly didn’t want to order a meal, we had recently had a very nice dinner. The limping waitress came back with brackish iced tea and cold coffee. She was completely baffled by my questions about pie, each of us trying to decide who was the bigger idiot. We were at an IHOP, of course it didn’t have pie on the menu. Duh!

The decision was made, we’d pay for a drinks and split. “You mean you aren’t gong to order anything?” the incredulous limping waitress asked.

“No, just let me know how much we owe you.”

She promised to get the ticket but first brought a hot coffee and iced tea in a couple of go cups. Finally, we got the ticket. I tipped way more than was probably necessary, but I felt a little guilty walking out without ordering anything. It wasn’t Limpy’s fault IHOP didn’t have pie, nor that she lacked the understanding that someone wouldn’t order something if they were sitting in the booth.

As we walked out, I became convinced that there was someone in the kitchen holding a knife to the cook in some sort of odd robbery. Everyone in that place looked and acted like something shady was going on. We had a good laugh about that as we drove to the next place, a trendy restaurant with an overpriced menu.

They had pie, although the girl behind the counter did seem annoyed that I had the audacity to ask for a scoop of ice cream on it. I had forgotten to ask her to heat the pie, so when I got it the pie was nearly as cold as the ice cream.

We then found a nice cozy table and spent the next hour or so talking and laughing and speculating just what the hell was going on at the IHOP. Sweetie was giving me a congenial hard time about my need for pie. I couldn’t disagree that much. It did seem like a lot of effort for something seemingly insignificant.

I explained, though, that it wasn’t just about pie. It’s about eating peasant food with someone and talking about Things. It’s about listening to new ideas and forming opinions and maybe even allowing myself to change my mind about an opinion I hold. It’s about laughter and jokes and looking at someone in the eyes and opening yourself up to show your vulnerabilities and hopes and dreams.

It’s about understanding someone on a personal level. And if you can empathize with someone as a person with a name, you can maybe see things differently when you step back out into the real world. Maybe you can solve some things.

As you probably have guessed, I love pie, I don’t eat it much at home – usually just my birthday pie. Eating pie alone seems a lot like drinking alone, an indication of a deeper problem.

If we are to solve the world’s problems, though, we need to bring back the all-night diner that has a good selection of pie and half-way decent coffee.

Mostly, though, we need to sit across the table from someone and enjoy each other’s company. In the end, it will be the simple things that will change the world.