A couple years ago, in San Francisco, at a certain open-late diner on Market Street, I had a question about the maple syrup. “Do you serve real maple syrup with the pancakes?” Our waitress was tattooed, blond-pink, pierced, and dismissive. “Yes,” she replied.
I’ve heard this before. I persisted. “I mean, its is natural maple syrup? Like from a tree?” The waitress is getting annoyed. In San Francisco its not necessary to defer to customers, or even be nice to them.
“Look, ” she began, exasperated and actually looking up from the pad now, “we make the maple syrup right here, in the back. We made it like one hour ago.”
Natural and homemade!