My wife and Iâ€”she being the Mary to my Vincentâ€”began our day of all-Price cooking with one of his great culinary loves: pancakes. They’d already come a long way from the days of a 1935 cookbook like Someone to Dinner, where the recipe for crÃªpes Savannah reads, in full, “Pancakes, the ordinary size, served with hot maple syrup.” No such fainthearted stuff for Vincent: The name Banana Pancake FlambÃ© Stonehenge alone murders all culinary competitors. You wrap sautÃ©ed bananas into crÃªpes, vigorously stab strips of bacon atop them, and flambÃ© it all in banana liqueur. It’s a dish that rewards sleepy incompetence: If you don’t flambÃ© it properly, the pancakes immediately soak up copious amounts of hooch, leaving you woozily imitating lines from The Abominable Dr. Phibes while you twirl a villainous moustache and choose your victims for lunch.
Amusingly enough, we’ve got a sinister bottle of banana cordial (inherited from Karen’s mother) right here in the house. It is certainly an appropriate elixir for Price-ian crÃªpe preparation. I often hear it whispering, whispering very softly, to me as I pass the liquor cabinet.
What’s that? What is it saying?
It wants me to show Karen’s new basset hound the special amontillado in the basement?
Hat tip to Karen L. Myers (Y 1975).