Andy Richardson: What’s on the menu? We’ve got no idea

I thought she was joking. You know, having fun at the expense of the tourist. Though quite why I thought that is anyone’s guess, for Canada is the politest nation on earth. They don’t go in much for bantz or a verbal joust to get the party started. Their idea of poking fun gently is saying stuff like: “Gee, you’re great. I really, really like you. I’m so glad we met.”

Erm. Thanks. And so are you. So do I. And so am I. . . buddy.

The question hung in the air. And then I dived in, feet first.

“Could I have a little cheese on it, please?”

The waitress looked at me dumbfounded. It was like I’d revealed a 666 tattoo at an evangelical rally, suggested we barbecue a black bear cub for the vegetarian supper club and eat it with moose or told them I was so hard I’d taken three Canadian Mounties out with my bare hands. Which I wouldn’t, of course.

“Cheese?” she said, slowly.

“Yes, cheese would be lovely.”

The table – of Canadians – burst out laughing. Who knew ‘cheese’ was the killer punchline in a joke about cheeseburgers. They laughed longer and harder than comedian Ken Cheng’s audience at this year’s Edinburgh Festival when he told his prize-winning gag about money: “I’m not a fan of the new pound coin, but then again, I hate all change.”

For a moment, I thought of emigrating to Canada. Apparently, you have to do it before you’re 49 and prove to the Canadian authorities you’d be useful to them. I’d pass the first part of that but I’m not sure that being able to take really good photographs of the Milky Way and order cheese on a cheeseburger would make me a valuable addition to their 36,290,000 population. Perhaps if I told them I make a mean pulled pork quesadilla I’d swing it. But I digress.

The table was laughing at me, not with me, for menus in Canada are the polar opposite of those in dear old Blighty. In the UK, we go overboard like a particularly naughty pirate who’s nicked the captain’s booze. So a bacon cheeseburger is described in breathless, hyperbolic terms: An extra-thick 100 per cent British and Irish Angus burger with smokey bacon, mature cheese, sun-blushed tomatoes, red onions, crispy Iceberg lettuce, tasty BBQ sauce and creamy mayo, all on a soft, toasted brioche bun. And who, frankly, wouldn’t want to eat that?

But in Canada, menus are more like a clue, than a description; they’re like the dots on a painting by numbers board, rather than doing that terribly old-fashioned thing of describing what you’re going to eat. And ordering burgers is like playing a game of Jenga. You start with a solid base – or, in this case, a cheeseburger, and pile it high. So while the menu says ‘cheeseburger’, what they really mean is: ‘We’ll start with the beef and cheese, then you can open the chef’s fridge and take whatever you like out of it. A lobe of foie gras, blueberries, maple syrup and just a little salad. We’ll do you fries from potatoes, sweet potatoes or celeriac, if you really want them. And then we’ll recite Quentin Tarrantino’s Pulp Fiction burger dialogue about God damn Royale with Cheese, if that would make you happy. Now have a nice day, sir, and don’t forget to tip.’

Except I didn’t know that when I ordered. So instead of asking for a burger with fries and salad, mayo and ketchup, I did the super-autistic, pay-attention-to-detail, stating-the-blindingly-obvious thing of reminding them to stick a slice of cheese in it. Damn.

A different waitress returned 15 minutes later. And while my lunch companions were eating sweet potato fries, lobster rolls and some of the best maritime Atlantic food known to man, I was eating a, ahem, naked burger, no sauce, no salad, no fries. Nice. The waitress almost sighed, pitifully, when she placed it before me. She viewed it like the lonely kid at the back of the class who has zero friends and really bad BO.

“And this is your burger, it’s kind of on its own.” So it was.

I love Canada. I love Canadian food. I love Canadian service. But I hate Canadian menus. They’re dumb. They leave too much to the imagination, too many opportunities for error, too many areas that are grey. And how am I supposed to know about the foie gras and blueberries in the fridge if the menu doesn’t tell me.

I mean, I ask you: What do you want in your cheeseburger? Cheese. Obvs. And plenty of it.

In 1989, protopunks New Model Army enjoyed a hit with a song called Don’t Ask Any More Stupid Questions. Actually, it was just called Stupid Questions. But I’ve extrapolated the title so that it makes sense and gives me a better punchline.

Because that’s what inquisitions at lunchtime are. Stupid Questions.

And I want cheese in my burger. Got that?