The Original Pancake House
Is anyone else in Seattle tired of the privilege of waiting 45 minutes to indulge in a ginormous helping of breakfast foods on a Sunday morning? I don’t care if it is free range, organic, vegan, or wheat grass infused. For fuck sake it’s breakfast: I want grease-tastic, carb-loaded, diner fare. The Original Pancake House is a godsend for an old-fashioned girl from Baltimore like me. Gingham curtains shade the windows, pine paneling casts a yellow blush across the room, and collector plates loom down from on high. Pancakes are obviously the showstoppers here, although they do have competition from the skillet-sized omelets. But these babies know how to work it with a fluff index of at least a quarter of an inch and fifteen options to choose from. Next Sunday morning, pull your disheveled self out of bed and head down for some medicine because nothing cures a hangover faster than a gut full of bacon pancakes. Now I’m a vegetarian, but back in the day I could eat the hell out of some pig pillowed in buttermilk batter. The best part is it won’t require endless waiting to receive your fix.
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