"IHOP, where the proletariat eat breakfast". Perhaps not exactly what George Orwell would have predicted but likely not that far off the mark. The clientele at your average IHOP is decidedly plebeian, lodged firmly in that upper lower-class demographic you're all feverishly rubbing away at your scratch-n'-wins to escape. But don't let that deter all you lower middle-class and above breakfast fans out there. While IHOP is far from breakfast bliss, if you're looking for something cheap and chain, you're going to come away from IHOP wholly satisfied and likely sporting a couple of extra chins at no extra charge.
Adding to its low-brow legend, all of the twelve International Houses Of Pancakes in the Lower Mainland are inconveniently located throughout various suburban wastelands. Our target today is situated a stone's throw away from Highway 99, presumably to facilitate the ease with which surly truckers and Winnebago caravans can identify and access its sumptuous wares.
Indeed, part of the fun of eating at IHOP is the sense of superiority one feels when dining amidst citizens of a lower intellectual and socioeconomic caste. A prime illustration of your average IHOP patrons would be the morbidly obese couple sitting directly next to us. In a vain attempt to engage in fork-to-mouth intercourse, the male component of this tragic duo experienced some elbow-to-belly turbulence, resulting in a poached egg being jarred loose from its clutching tines and plummeting squarely into his expansive lap area. Rather than risking injurious fork-to-genital contact, his corpulent fingers reached downwards, cupping the errant ovum and subsequently shovelling it into his cavernous maw. The gluttonous suckling of his own fingers upon egress forced me to call into question whether or not Darwin's "survival of the fittest" concept was remotely applicable in today's sedentary society. But onwards with the review….
As any IHOP frequent feeder knows, the flagship of the menu is the Rooty-Tooty-Fresh-n'-Fruity breakfast. This mother includes two eggs, two bacon strips, two pork sausage links and two buttermilk pancakes, coated with your choice of an assortment of fruit (albeit canned) "topping" for the palatable price of $7.49. I must say that despite the nauseatingly Disney-esque moniker, past occasions when I've chosen to indulge have left me unquestionably contented.
Satiation was a slippery mistress on this day, however, and ultimately eluded us as we ignored our better judgement and chose to step outside of the Rooty-Tooty Safety Zone. I selected the "Corned Beef Hash and Eggs" which, for $8.69, came with three (one more than two!!) eggs, three "fluffy buttermilk pancakes" and a side of completely redundant hash browns. How did it stack up, so to speak? Folks, there's a reason that this place isn't called the "International House of Corned Beef." If you're not a fan of that craptacular, salty, Spammy, Brazilian-rainforest-decimating canned mystery meat, I'd avoid this at all costs.
Having said that, the accompanying pancakes, which I chose to have "Swedish Style", were almost enough to atone for the corned beef's assault on my intestinal lining. For the non-Scandinavians in the audience, Swedish pancakes are comprised of regular pancakes topped with "tart berry sauce" and "Swedish berry butter." To my abject dismay, they were not served by a busty blond in a skimpy milkmaid outfit, tarnishing my heretofore esteemed and completely unrealizable expectations of Swedish culture.
Further cementing the "I" in IHOP, is the option to have your pancakes served French (with orange sauce) or German-style (with lemon butter). Not unexpectedly, there is no "Finnish Style" option as I imagine that there is little demand for pancakes topped with bloody fish-heads and entrails.
The adventure continued as Hun-lo ordered up the megalithic "Split Decision," a steal at $7.99 comprised of two eggs, two bacon, two sausages, two triangles of French toast and two pancakes. Substituting potato pancakes for any of the aforementioned varieties proved to be a near-fatal mistake due to the extremely high grease quotient and overall disgustingness factor involved. The French toast was deemed merely "ok" and served as little more than a vehicle for the array of syrups adorning our table. Dining disaster was narrowly averted as the "perfectly done" eggs and exceptional bacon levelled out the meal to "marginally gratifying" overall.
As alluded to above, one of the real bonuses of a meal at IHOP is the arsenal of syrups that come pre-placed on your table. With standby strawberry, bioluminous blueberry, elusive boysenberry and the mysterious "old-fashioned pancake syrup", there's bound to be a viscous, sucrosey compound to please even the most particular pancake lover in your party. The sheer quantity and variety of syrupy goo available nearly evoked Hun-lo and I into engaging in a Super Troopers-style chug-off. Hoping to delay adult-onset diabetes for a few more months, we opted to postpone until having consulted our respective physicians. But, yeah, I would have kicked his cracker ass to the curb.
Our server, Noel, was genial and prompt on the coffee refills. He didn't push us or try to up-sell and answered all of our asinine questions while still maintaining a modicum of dignity. We appreciated his candour as he openly admitted to being "not really that into my job." The only drawback to Noel was that, and I'm sure all you Mensa members out there already picked up on this, Noel is a man's name and indeed, Noel was a dude.
IHOP is unquestionably not the place one seeks out if one's primary objective is to make time with hot and/or dumb waitresses, pathetically attempting to boost one's triple zero Friday night batting average at the Stone Temple Cabaret. Fear not, fair scumbags, as the suburban locations and reasonable prices ensure each IHOP's clientele will include a table of cum-drunk gutter-sluts making a pit-stop prior to hitting up the local free clinic for this weekend's "morning after" pills. I suppose this could be looked upon as either a bane or a boon, depending on your moral inclinations and standards.
At any rate, despite our rather mediocre outing today, both Hun-lo and myself are decidedly in favour of returning to IHOP in the future and recommend that you do the same. The décor is inoffensive, the wait is reasonable and, as long as you don't stray too far from their namesake pancakes, you won't regret your venture into the suburban sprawl. Just as a helpful hint, you might want to think about growing a mullet, donning a faded "Pantera" T and dusting off those old acid-washed 501's as to avoid drawing attention to yourself. When in Rome…
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