Oddly, one of the first things that happened to me when I arrived in Canada was a trip to a maple syrup farm, possibly to establish for the stupid and misplaced Englishman that it doesn't come out of sugary cows. After that we climbed Mount Canadian stereotype for a game of ice hockey. But yes, maple syrup should be squeezed out of maple trees by burly, plaid shirted Eh-Eh-Ehing Canadians. At a pinch I'll accept Vermonters who are effectively sneaking out of the US when no one is looking (if I remember, there's a on town on the border with a theatre where you can actually enter in the US and watch the show in Canada).
Faux maple syrup is a crime in any jurisdiction and one I will not abide. Fortunately I know my NYC diners and thus minimize the risk of 'Canadian-style maple flavored syrup'. The further south you sink, the riskier the proposition gets. In California, for some reason, I once ended up with agave syrup which wasn't as bad as it sounded. It could have been worse, it might have been avocado syrup.
I've experienced food on sticks. I don't think there's anything in the mid-west that they can't deliver deep-fried on a stick, and I won't say anything bad about the mighty corn dog. Someone once tried to serve me fried clams on a stick. I don't like shellfish at the best of times and they're one of the few things that even immersion in a deep vat of hot oil can't improve. I once attended an American football game that lasted what felt like eighteen long weeks and I only survived through eating eight corn dogs and stetson size helping of nachos. My great American novel will be based on this epic struggle for survival.
Reminds me, cafes in the UK that put random cheap brown sauce in the HP bottles because it must save like, oh, pence. Stop it.
Right, I'm off to Paris. There's bound to be a rant in that. I can feel those Parisian waiters bristling already. Poor schoolboy French locked and loaded. It's the only way to neutralize those surly waiters.