Johnny Seymour’s
World-Famous
Home-Made Pecan Pie.

We had been driving all afternoon and we both felt the time was right to stop and get some food. We found a roadside diner called Johnny Seymour's that claimed to sell the best pecan pie. "The best pecan pie”, the sign said.  Naturally, we both dismissed the idea. If it really was the best pecan pie, why would it be hiding out here, at a cafe in the middle of nowhere? There was no mile-long queue of people desperate to get their hands on it; no-one was being trampled in the rush to get the last slice of the day; in fact, this diner looked almost empty.

We entered the diner and sat at the counter. Despite our shared cynicism, we ordered some pie. "Two coffees and two slices of the best pecan pie please." I asked the waitress, who looked as though nothing gave her more pleasure than serving this fabled pecan pie to strangers. I’m serious! She genuinely looked thrilled. She poured our strong-smelling coffee immediately and the pie arrived only a few moments later. The pie looked good. Really good. Still, I thought, it can't truly be the best pecan pie.

I took a small bite and was taken aback. The feeling was intense. Each individual ingredient was delightfully discernible and every second that pie was in my mouth was a second of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. This really was the best pecan pie. I looked around at the faces of the other customers. They all appeared to be enjoying it — more-or-less as much as I was — and yet, there were only nine people eating in this restaurant. Nine! Including the two of us! 

As I took one bite after another, my mind went into overdrive. People need to know about this pie. I began contemplating the mass marketing of this pecan pie. With a glance at the menu, I reminded myself of the name of this restaurant: Johnny Seymour's. That’s a strong name. That could work. I would consult with Johnny regarding a partnership deal — he would make the pie and I would sell it to the supermarkets. We would package the pie with a nostalgic 1950s-style logo and call it 'Johnny Seymour's World-Famous Home-Made Pecan Pie'. As people began to discover the best pecan pie they had ever tasted, the word would spread fast. We'd be rich, and the world would be better off for having this pecan pie on every shelf in every supermarket. Prisoners on death row would ask for their final meal to consist only of Johnny Seymour's World-Famous Home-Made Pecan Pie. The advertising jingle would be the catchiest jingle ever written — it would enter the shared consciousness of the entire population. Children would cry out for another slice of Johnny Seymour's World-Famous Home-Made Pecan Pie, and soon they would come to accept nothing but Johnny Seymour's World-Famous Home-Made Pecan Pie for every meal. Johnny Seymour's World-Famous Home-Made Pecan Pie for breakfast. Johnny Seymour's World-Famous Home-Made Pecan Pie for lunch. Johnny Seymour's World-Famous Home-Made Pecan Pie for dinner. And for pudding? Johnny Seymour's World-Famous Home-Made Ice Cream. We’ll iron out the details on that later.

After all this, after we had made our fortune, after we’d lived a life of luxury thanks to our pecan pie empire, and after we’d both lived to a ripe old age fuelled largely by pecan pie, well, Johnny and I would be buried side-by-side. Each of us would receive a state funeral attended by pecan pie lovers numbering in the millions. It will all be so easy. Johnny just needs me to get things up and running.

My train of thought was interrupted by a large, heavy shadow casting over my empty plate. I had shovelled my slice of Johnny Seymour's World-Famous Home-Made Pecan Pie into my mouth like somewhat of a pig, with no concern at all for etiquette and I had gotten crumbs and bits of pecans all over my clothes and face. 

"I think you've had enough," came a booming voice. I couldn’t believe it. Johnny Seymour himself! I was so excited to meet him, but he seemed angry. He took my empty plate and poured what remained of my coffee into the sink. “It’s time for you to leave,” he said.

I ignored his instruction completely. I knew I’d made a mess, and allegedly I had also been shouting quite a lot, but I knew this was my chance. Perhaps my only chance. I jumped down from my seat at the counter and breathlessly tried to explain my ideas to the great Johnny Seymour. He didn't share my vision.

I awoke lying in a ditch later that day — confused, alone and with terrible bruising. I noticed were still some pecan crumbs dotted about my clothes. I picked one off and held it gently between my fingers.

I had everything I needed.