I have nothing personally against crepes. They are full of yummy goodness, but they are now creeping into places where crepes once feared to tread.
You see, Bob Evans had a farm. I went there when I was a kid. It had cows and chickens and lots of pigs. Bob founded a restaurant chain and probably became a go-zillionaire, but he didn’t move to Manhattan or open a capuccino bar.
He sold lots of sausage. He had a barn. He wore a hat.
I never met him, but he was a smart guy. His restaurants have always served breakfast all day, which is the greatest invention in American Culinary History. Breakfast isn’t just the most important meal of your day, it is the most awesome, especially when you’re eating it sometime other than first thing in the morning.
So I sat down recently at our local Bob Evans Restaurant in eager anticipation of breakfast-y goodness, only to find unmistakable evidence that some urbanite with a degree in Culinary Arts has obviously gotten the menu choices into his grip.
Right between the Pot Roast and the Big Egg Breakfast is the Most American Breakfast of All, the Farmer’s Choice… and one of the options is a fruit crepe.
A fruit crepe.
Farmers don’t choose fruit crepes. Farmers don’t ask for fruit crepes. Farmers don’t even know how to spell fruit crepe, not because they’re stupid, but because they’re fruit crepes.
It’s crepe creep. One day you found a restaurant and general store, then you have 5 of them, then 10, then an entire chain, then executives and shareholders and consultants, then crepes in your Farmer’s Choice Breakfast.
If you’re an artist living in Soho, have a fruit crepe…knock yourself out. If you’re in the Midwest at a Bob Evans, Just Say No to Crepes. The integrity of the Farmer’s Breakfast must be upheld. I don’t go to Papa John’s for sushi, I don’t go to Dairy Queen for a salad, and I don’t go to Bob Evans for a crepe.
I would, however, like some extra syrup with my hotcakes. Bob lived to be 89, he must have been doing something right.