Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
Banana Cream Pie
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
My name is Noah. I live in the heartland of America’s premier banana cream pie restaurants.
15.4 miles east of my house Frank Fat’s restaurant in downtown Sacramento, California, serves sumptuous, multi-course Chinese cuisine to politicians, powerbrokers, lobbyists and locals. Frank Fat’s gourmet banana cream pie is made with homemade custard, real whipped cream, fresh banana slices. The crust is flaky. A slice of pie is served with a chilled fork and cloth napkin.
19.2 miles to my west is a Nation’s Giant Hamburgers and Great Pies. It’s just off a freeway exit leading to Vacaville, California. I stop here often, never making it further down the road to the Napa Vallery wine vineyards or to the gastronomic superstar restaurants in San Francisco.
Nation’s grills hamburgers served with thick slices of tomato, lettuce and onions. Buttery melted cheddar cheese. Sesame buns are tender to the touch. But good, even great, burgers can be found throughout the United States and even in some countries not famous for hamburgers. In France, I never miss a chance to devour a Big Fernand.
Nation’s banana cream pie—made with a creamy, almost runny, vanilla pudding and sliced, slightly overripe bananas—is addictive. Artificial whipped cream as white and fluffy as newly-fallen snow tops the pie. The sweetened crust is mooshy on the bottom, a bit hard around the edges. The pie comes on a paper plate with a plastic fork.
Among Americans, Minnesotans and North Dakotans eat the most banana cream pie. My competitive advantage—besides the nearby, world-class banana cream eateries—is I have a scientifically unknown gland that secretes an enzyme that I swear breaks down banana cream calories so second slices are non-fattening.
The world is full of travelers on the move. Some voluntary, some involuntary. 300 million people live outside their birth country. That’s a lot of cross-cultural enrichment and culturally diverse communication—but without sufficient multi-cultural understanding.
For instance, there’s no global consensus on the best pie flavor. Apple pie, pumpkin pie, key lime pie, lemon meringue pie, pecan pie, cherry pie, coconut cream pie, Boston cream pie, berry pie, chocolate pie are contenders. Each recipe reflects a so-called “rich culinary tradition.” I have traveled on six continents, and I can assure you banana cream pie is the best.
A few years ago, I sailed on the Queen Mary from New York to London. Seven days at sea on an ocean liner with every imaginable amenity. With deck chairs and lifeboats. A gym and a library. Rainbows and rolling waves. With enough cafeterias and restaurants to feed 4200 guests three times a day. For all that, no banana cream pies airlifted from Nation’s or Frank Fat’s. It was a long week.
My heart breaks with sadness for the rugged survivalists—deprived of a superior banana cream pie in their lives, what else can they be called—who have migrated from California to Texas. Considering their plight, my breath comes harder. My vision blurs. A soreness aches in my throat.
To console my sorrow, I feed myself another forkful of banana cream pie.
