I ordered one pancake in America. The waitress wrote it down and said, "one short stack." Short. I am a small and humble man. A short stack sounded perfect for me. I waited with a calm heart. She returned carrying three pancakes, each the size of my face, stacked into a tower, with a block of butter on top sliding down the sides like slow lava. This was the short one. I did not dare ask what the tall one looked like. Some knowledge a man is not ready for. I ate for forty minutes. I was not full. I was afraid. The tower did not shrink. I am fairly sure it was growing back faster than I could eat it. I had to surrender. I left half. In Japan, leaving food is a deep shame. So I leaned in close and apologized to the pancakes directly, in a low voice, one by one. The waitress asked if I wanted a box. I did not know food could be taken into custody. I declined. I did not want it following me home. In America, is the short stack truly the small one? I need time to prepare my spirit before I ever face the tall one.