It was Pancake Tuesday (I mean, when else?) and things were going so well at the beginning. My first attempt turned out exactly the way I wanted. I might even go so far as to say it was a textbook example.

But it was a fluke. Maybe the pan had gotten too hot, maybe I didn't coat it with enough oil - whatever happened, all subsequent attempts were doomed to miserable failure. So I went to Tesco's and bought a pack of ready-made ones instead.

If this story has a moral, it would be this: don't ask an Irishman to make you a pancake. We don't have nearly enough practice.

A cold, cold December evening. We had spent most of the day searching in vain for an authentic chocoaterie when my companion, perhaps sensing the disappointment that I did not outwardly convey, suggested we get out of the cold and have a bite to eat. Realising in that instant that I was actually quite hungry, I readily agreed, and within a matter of moments we were seated together, sheltered from the bitter winter chill, in what I can only assume must be a typical Belgian eating establishment.

While the entire menu was most tantalising, my gaze was attracted to the dessert section. It had to be pancakes with chocolate syrup for me. A wise decision; they tasted even better than they looked. I could have eaten a whole pile! My companion, however, presumably to be contrary, settled upon a bowl of frites with a side dish of mayonnaise. I must admit the chips were impressively long and curvy compared to the pithy little things one might find in an American fast food emporium, but having a sample or two, I found them to be rather bland. The mayonnaise didn't help much. (Maybe some sour cream instead?) At least they don't eat them with their pancakes; the Belgians have a healthy respect for sweet/savoury boundaries, unlike others I could care to mention...

A beautiful day under clear blue skies and a dazzling African sun. A sleepy roadside cafe. And a pancake, in the European tradition, of the crepe variety. A wonderfully soft texture with a hint of crispiness, light and airy but not insubstantial, and served with a healthy dollop of vanilla ice cream. This, my friends, is how a pancake is supposed to be, sweet and perfect.

Unfortunately, it seems that in the long journey from the Netherlands to the southern tip of Africa some bright spark decided that chicken liver (that's right, chicken liver) would make for a better filling. There I am, trying to enjoy my perfect ice-cream-smothered ambrosia, while my partner has hers with an ungodly concoction of chicken liver (chicken liver!) and some gravy-like substance. Disgusting. It damn near turned my stomach.

They make fine pancakes down in South Africa, but they have to ruin them with their outlandish serving suggestions. Stick to the sweet stuff, please.

Chicken liver?!?

Okay, so technically, I'm making this one up. Sorry to spoil it for you by confessing from the get-go, but as a great man once said, I cannot tell a lie. I might actually have broken some law by not eating even a single, solitary bite of syrup-soaked pancakey goodness during the six days I spent in Canada's largest city. If I could do it all again, I'd have a bloody great tower of the things as soon as I landed at the airport. I'd also get a donut at that Canadian institution, Tim Horton's. It seems like I walked past a Tim Horton's outlet once every two minutes, yet I never stepped inside to sample their wares ... Did you know, on the Danforth, they've got a Tim Horton's and a Wendy's joined together? So you can get a square burger at one end of the counter, and a fresh suger-dusted donut at the other? That's pure genius ... But I digress. Where were we? Oh yes, pancakes. I admit I could have lied from the beginning, I could have told you I spent my time in the land of Mounties gorging on stacks of pancakes and guzzling from barrels of maple syrup, but in actual fact I lived on Ritz crackers for the whole week. And shots of whiskey. And I had a waffle once.