If you give a mom a crepe
It’s Sunday morning, and your parents want to have a nice meal with you before they leave Davis. You think, “Hmm, maybe I’ll introduce them to Crepeville. There’s something for everyone there.” But I’m going to stop you right there. If you embark down this dark and dangerous path, there is no turning back.
The addiction to Crepeville starts off simple enough.
You take your parents for that initial Nutella banana crepe. You all leave the restaurant, your parents nonchalantly shrugging and saying, “Not bad.” Not a deluge of enthusiasm, but not exactly a critique either.
Fast forward three months. It’s the first time your parents have come back to Davis for a visit since last quarter. You need a place to eat, and your dad casually says, “How ‘bout that crepe place in Downtown? What’s it called…Crepe City?” And you agree because it’s been weeks since you’ve had Crepeville. You leave the restaurant after your second Crepeville outing. Your parents are raving.
“Can we talk about the potatoes?”
“Can we talk about those CREPES, Barb?”
If your parents say something that sounds uncharacteristically Caucasian of them, then you’re too late. The lust for Crepeville has bewitched your parents, body and soul.
A few weeks later, your parents call, emphatically asking if they can visit you. You’re suspicious because they usually complain about making the drive to Davis, but you happily oblige since yah love ‘em. They want to eat at Crepeville again because they “already know it’s good.” You think “For the love of God, there are other places to eat in this town.” But these people give you money for boba, so you keep your bubble tea-lovin’ mouth shut.
Minutes into dinner, you notice something is off. Your parents haven’t even looked at you. They’ve only had eyes for their apple cinnamon crepes this whole time! And that’s when you realize…
They didn’t come to Davis to see you. They came to Davis to eat mediocre crepes.
Before you know it, the pictures of you on your family’s fridge have been replaced with photographs of French pancakes. All your little league trophies have been replaced with “Best Restaurant in Davis” plaques. You are no longer your parents’ child. Crepes are their baby now.
Written by: Madeline Kumagai — email@example.com