As the scene opens, Will Chapman, owner and manager of Will Chapman's House of Pancakes is about to finally serve the President his breakfast. It has been three hours since the President ordered his meal, and he is becoming increasingly irritable as the time passes without any sign of a waffle.
“Excuse me, sir, we've had some difficulties in the kitchen, and Mr. Chapman would like to present your morning coffee for you to sip while you wait.”
“Where's my favorite coffee mug?”
“Er, well, it fell on the floor during that explosion, but don't worry, a bottle of superglue and several hundred hours with a pair of tweezers ought to see it fully restored. Provided that nobody sneezes, that is.”
Slowly striding forwards, our hero bows before the President, fully aware that this is to be a defining moment in his career. Pride swells within him, filling every corner of his being with a warm glow as he prepares to introduce his masterpiece.
“I call it: The Interpreting the Waffle!” Pausing for dramatic affect, Will continues. “First, we must pay our respects to the ancestor of the waffle; the pancake. Keep in mind that this is a piece of waffle history.”
“You're going to be history! I ordered waffles, and you're not going to feed me another pancake if I can help it!”
Seizing the pancake from his plate, the President lifts it high in the air with a violent motion. Anger transfigures his face, betraying his feelings for the round disc in his hand.
Divining his intent, Will and his assistant turn and run for it, but are too slow as the pancake catches them halfway out the door. They crash to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs, thrashing wildly as Will's toque soars away. Luckily, the President hadn't bothered to pour syrup on before throwing improvising his projectile weapon.
After much deliberation, Mr. Chapman bravely stays behind to guard the trolley and lets Mr. Cole have the honor of serving the next course. After all, somebody's got to do it! Making the most of the opportunity, Will's energetic aide ensures that the President won't ever forget him.
“Will Chapman proudly presents the salad course: grilled chicken salad with waffle croûtons! And may I say, your Sublimeness, that that suit looks particularly nice on you.”
His flattering words fall on deaf ears; the great man's brow darkens as he menacingly whispers, grinding out every syllable.
“You just tell your Mr. Chapman to come over here, and I'll show him what I think of this 'salad course'.”
“Yes, your Worshipfulness!”
Happy to escape the President's wrathful attention, Mr. Cole trots over to where his superior cowers behind the cart and propels him towards the President's seat while making good his escape. Reluctantly thrust back into the spotlight, Will approaches the breakfast table with some trepidation.
To his great dismay, the President's men fetch a garbage can from another room and begin to discard his precious dish that he so lovingly labored over! Taking off his hat in respect to the newly departed greens, he can only look on in mute grief as the men in black cart away the remains.
Numbed by this display of callous disregard for the culinary arts, Chef Chapman says a prayer under his breath for the salad. Trudging away towards the kitchen, he can only hope that the next course doesn't meet with the same dark fate.
His spirits revived, Will brings in the appetizer. Not even the toughest critic can denounce the irresistible appeal of snack food! The more fat, salt, and sugar used the better! Mr. Chapman doesn't disappoint as he brings in his most deadly, artery-clogging creation.
“I now present to your discriminating tastes; the Yorkshire Waffle! It's a Yorkshire pudding made with panc- waffle batter and topped with frosting and raspberry jam.”
Upon hearing these words, the President despairs of ever acquiring a warm, crispy waffle. Nothing fancy, just a normal waffle! He slumps upon the table, his hopes destroyed. He closes his eyes, but waffles dance throughout his head, tormenting him with visions of his long overdue breakfast.
Reentering with the next course, Will is shocked to see the President's plate already empty, and a very familiar shape perched upon the statue's helmet. Though sure of it's origins, he feels compelled to ask about it.
“Umm, is that the Yorkshire Waffle on the statue’s head?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sensing that the President does not wish to speak of it further, Mr. Chapman wisely decides not to pursue the subject.
Bending over, Chef Chapman reaches into the heated compartment of the serving trolley and pulls out a warm dish, filled to the brim with:
“This delectable soup is filled with waffle dumplings and delicious spring veggies.”
“Oh, you mean like this one?”
His bad humor intensified by yet another non-waffle dish, the President makes his feelings known! Vegetation and dough-balls thicken the air as the Prez fires them from his vantage point on his chair. Throughout the commotion, his guards remain statue-still, eyes front. Even in the face of the biggest display of rage even observed from their supreme leader they do not flinch.
His nerves still tingling from his narrow escape, Will cautiously makes his way across the carpet, bearing a covered dish in his hands. The still-silent guards retrieving the scattered food items from the ground. The surrounding light reflects from the pristine platter, creating a halo of golden light. The President's hopes rise momentarily as this heavenly sight. Could this be the long awaited waffle?
“Mr. President, sir, it is with great pleasure that I unveil the final meal course of the day! I present: Waffle with Béarnaise Sauce!”
There is no explanation for this simple fact, yet it remains that the greatest chefs serve the smallest portions. Not only that, but these bite-sized “Main courses” cost more than a meal five times their size!
Ceremoniously, Chef Chapman lifts the cover from the dish as the President looks on with baited breath. A microscopic speck of what may or may not have been a waffle lay in the center of the plate, surrounded by sauce. Without warning, the president sneezed, causing the crumb to fly off the plate and disappear into the thick carpeting on the floor.
“MR. CHAPMAN, YOU ARE-”
“But sir, don't you want dessert? Ice cream with a waffle cone?”
Momentarily derailed, the President is silent for a moment before finishing his statement and Will's career in the culinary arts once and for all.
“Spare change, anyone?”
“You know, I should’ve prototyped that BrickArms Waffle Iron like that one guy suggested.”