If you're like me, you could just sit there all day long ogling over this plate-spanning stack of flapjacks, griddled golden and just seconds away from being slicked with butter and maple syrup. These sublime pancakes were my breakfast on Sunday morning, the perfect pick-me-up after a night of crippling debauchery.
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The pristine set of pink acrylic nails propping up the plate? An added bonus. If you can name the server whose hands delivered my pancakes, you eat here way too often. Either way, I'll settle for the right answer to a simple question: Where am I eating?