The crowds at IHOP at 1am are slicked in glitter and glisten with booze. There’s an overlit garishness to the place, from the orange neon chrome of the coffeepot to the candy hues of flavored syrups. Diners congregate over sugar-sogged pancakes and chicken tenders while waiters dance anxiously around them – the picture of well-meaning inefficiency.

You order the harvest grain ‘n nut pancakes with apple compote topping. When the waiter leaves, you spot a girl. She’s crammed into an opposite booth, her arms spilling out of a denim vest and day-glo green tank top. Her calves are shoved into black wedge boots whose tops skim her knees, yearning to kiss the hem of her skirt which lies an ocean of thigh away. It’s hard to tear your eyes away. She gets up, there’s a spring in her step, her chin is lifted; she is proud. You sort of admire her.

The pancakes come. The apple compote is as sweet as a toothache, sweeter than apple pie filling, and so sugary it almost burns you. The cream on top is a relief. You search out the bits of crunch in the dough and for once, you do not reach for the syrup. You think about chain restaurant food and the lowest common denominator that it must appeal to.

There is nothing accidental or personal about this food. It has passed through thousands of other lives and Friday nights, every bit as overbearingly sweet.

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