(Smiling mischievously) I know exactly what I would do. I would baldly refuse to take him anywhere that falls under the category "champagne wishes and caviar dreams" and probably take him to places where the waitresses are named Doris (complete with hair done up in a beehive) and where if he dared to put his napkin daintily in his lap he'd be laughed at. I would take him far, far away from his comfort zone.
Here are a few samples of places I would take him, should he ever decide to come back Stateside.....
Here, they sell it the old way: by the pound, wrapped in butcher paper...generally, you eat it with your hands and swill it down with a cold beer.
Yanna's Ye Olde Drugstore
Swansboro, North Carolina
Remember the movie Fried Green Tomatoes? -Chicken feed! This is an old time spot where the grits are hot, the waitresses call you "hon," and the stuff of my childhood memories.
New York City
I am pretty sure he's eaten something from North Africa in his fifty years of life. On the other hand, I doubt he has ever consumed an alcoholic drink called a "Hawaiian Punch in the Balls" or a "Pyro." I further doubt that he has ever had the experience of watching a really hot belly dancer writhe and gyrate with few clothes on. (I figure the man probably spends a lot of time on the road...it would be a gift.) Other than that, the food is great, nice lamb tagines and you sit on your favorite pouf, eating with your hands.
Los Angeles, California
These burgers have been around for over 20 years. When the folks down at the city morgue lift the sheet to look at the face of the deceased, they notice two things: 1) he died of a massive heart attack and 2) he is smiling wide, a last look of greasy euphoria on his face as the very bad for you but delicious food slid down his gullet. Forget Pink's Hot Dogs. The chili they make here is something to remember. The everything on it burgers are big as Buicks.
I remember watching Stephen get all hot and bothered over chucking the lobsters in the pot. Well, Mr. Fry, come with me and see what happens when a restaurant sitting on the town wharf strikes up a bargain with the harbor fishermen. Come and eat huge plates of steamer clams, big lobsters the size of cats, corn chowder, and a few others. If you are good, I'll take you to Farfar's ice cream a few miles away where handmade ice cream is made the old way.
My grandparents ate here a lot: when my grandpa worked in an oil yard, he'd go there and have his chow. I eat there when I go visit my relatives. This ain't no imitation. This is a REAL diner that has all the fixins to go with it. And yes, at one time, there was somebody working there named Doris. It is gaudy, it is cheesy, but it is beautiful to me in its simple, honest food-real milkshakes, real greasy spoon goodness.
The birthplace of deep dish pizza. The place where there are names and heaven knows what else carved into the benches. Heaven.
I'd pay big money to see Stephen Fry eat their four way chili, served over spaghetti. I'd pay even bigger money to see him sit next to your average blue collar guy and attempt to converse (something tells me expounding upon PG Wodehouse would be as useful to a bricklayer as balls on a bishop.)