How the IHOP Menu became the part of my story

There’s a photo somewhere in an old family album of me at age six, sitting in a booth with a chocolate-smeared grin, holding a fork like a sword. In front of me is a plate of pancakes stacked high, crowned with whipped cream and a cherry. That was my first memory of IHOP, though I’m sure it wasn’t actually the first time I’d been there.

It’s funny how a menu — just a list of food — can hold so much meaning. But the IHOP menu has followed me through almost every stage of my life. Not because it’s fancy or trending, but because it’s always been there.

When I was a kid, weekend breakfasts were a big deal. My parents worked long hours, and we didn’t eat out often, so a trip to IHOP meant something was being celebrated. It didn’t matter if it was a birthday, good grades, or just a rare Sunday with no obligations — it felt like a reward. I always ordered the same thing: the smiley face pancake. It came with chocolate chips and a whipped cream grin. I didn’t care how it tasted. It was fun. It was special.

As I got older, the menu started to shift in my eyes. I remember being maybe twelve or thirteen, finally allowed to order from the “regular” section. I chose an omelette just because it looked grown-up. I didn’t even like it that much, but I finished it — because I was trying to prove something. Adulthood, independence, a new stage. That’s how it felt, even if it was just eggs and cheese.

High school brought late-night study groups and early morning meets. IHOP became the only place open when the night stretched too long or the morning came too early. The menu didn’t change, but the meaning did. It became a meeting place. A place where we could land when everything else felt uncertain — exam results, first jobs, friendships changing. It was a space where the world slowed down, and the coffee was bottomless.

I remember one visit in particular. I’d just gone through a difficult breakup. Everything felt upside-down. A friend picked me up without asking, drove us to the nearest IHOP, and slid a menu across the table. “Pick something you haven’t had before,” she said. I got a plate of waffles with strawberries. We didn’t talk much that morning, but we didn’t need to. The menu was a comfort. The booth was a kind of safety net.

College made me appreciate the affordability and consistency of the place. I once survived two weeks on pancakes and scrambled eggs while waiting for a scholarship refund to clear. The servers started to recognize me. One even asked if I wanted “the usual” — something that made me feel seen in a city where I often felt invisible.

The thing is, the IHOP menu hasn’t changed that much over the years — and maybe that’s the point. In a world obsessed with reinvention, it's oddly reassuring to open a menu and find exactly what you expect. The simplicity of bacon, eggs, pancakes, or a familiar sandwich can be enough. It’s grounding.

Now, as an adult with a job and bills and not enough time, I find myself going back less often. But when I do, it’s like pressing pause. I sit down, breathe out, and remember who I was at all those stages — the little kid with chocolate on her face, the teenager pretending to love vegetables, the college student trying to stay awake.

Sometimes I order the pancakes. Sometimes it’s a turkey sandwich. But it doesn’t really matter. The menu isn’t just about what I eat. It’s a reminder that through all the changes in my life, there’s been at least one thing that stayed the same.

And that’s something to hold onto.