“My dear,” said my father, taking my hand and pointing me towards the menu. “What do you want to eat? Crêpes?”

I nodded even though my stomach was still churning from nerves and airplane food, and what I really wanted was something familiar, comforting, American--not a French pancake.

The last time I had crêpes was years ago. My mother used to make them out of buckwheat flour and fill them with broccoli and cream sauce and cheese. I remember her rolling them up and placing them row by row into a baking pan, transforming a French delicacy into a Minnesota casserole.

“Mi amor. ¿Qué tipo quieres?” ” said my father when a beautiful girl in thick mascara and pink eye shadow came to take our order. I studied the brightly colored menu but couldn't understand most of it. My text-book Spanish had not prepared me for a gastronomic vocabulary. The words “fresa” and “crema” were illustrated with pictures of strawberries and pitchers of cream.

“Crêpes con fresa,” I enunciated. "Por favor," I added.