As Swedish As Apple Pie

Carrie and I went to IKEA today to pick up a few things to brighten our humble NY abodes. After a harried journey that included three subway transfers, a sweat drenched diversion along South Street and a soggy boat ride, we arrived parched and aching for the air conditioned retreat; we decided to eat in the cafeteria first. While in line, we were deciding which dessert looked most appetizing when we saw this sign for Apple Cake. We immediately burst into laughter.

O.K., allow me to back up a little . . .

Earlier this May, after an evening at the ballet with Carrie, Jordan, and Bryan, we decided to visit the diner across the street from the theater for a little dessert. The diner was simple with a fairly large menu and a decent array of desserts in the refrigerated turntable near the window; we figured it couldn't be too much of a miss.

After crowding into a small booth, our older waitress of Slavic descent came to take our orders. We went around the table ordering a sundae, chocolate cake, cookies, and for me, a slice of apple cake. After a few minutes of small talk, she returned with our plates of sugary goodness. She dropped a small plate with a pie crust, apple slices, and a crumbled top directly in front of me. Everyone else at the table immediately dug into their late night treats, but I didn't touch mine. Jordan turned to me and asked why I wasn't eating. I said, "This isn't what I ordered. I wanted apple cake and this appears to be apple pie."

After nearly thirty minutes, my entire group had eaten their desserts and mine remained untouched. Our waitress finally returned to our table to bring us our check, finally providing me the first chance to tell her that my order was incorrect. She responded with shock and dismay. . . she told me that I had in front of me exactly what I had ordered. I said, "No, I ordered apple cake; this is a slice of apple pie."

"No, that is apple cake." She went so far as to prove her point that she walked away, retrieved a menu (which incidentally had no photos in it), brought it back to the table and pointed to the apple cake listing there. Luckily, the guys in the group quickly came to my defense and told her that I was holding a slice of pie, not cake, on my plate.

After a few minutes of bantering back and forth, she finally offered to bring me something different (while shaking her head in frustration that she couldn't convince me to see her point of view). . . I decided that I would go home hungry since everyone else in my party had already finished eating what they had ordered; luckily, she removed the item from our check.

This story remains an inside joke and seeing the menu item here at The Mecca For All Things Swedish made us laugh. Maybe that's how they make apple cake in Europe . . . er, apple pie? Or, is it cake? Pie?