Why? I'm not exactly sure. As with many traditions, the origins of this one have been forgotten. And as with most traditions, the tradition itself is less important than all the things that surround it. In this case, what surrounds the Dutch Baby — a massive, bowl-shaped, eggy, crepe-y, pancake-y monstrosity large enough to feed four that comes dressed in melted butter, lemon juice and powdered sugar — is fresh-squeezed orange juice, huge sides of handmade corned beef hash, thick-cut and chewy bacon, ten cups of coffee and a last-minute order of cherry Kijafa crepes, gotten to go and picked at in the car. Chain or no — and the Original Pancake House is a chain, with locations in 26 states, two of them here — I love this place for its assumption that even the stick-skinny soccer moms of Cherry Hills Village want home fries served by the pound and a pancake large enough to wear as a hat. And I even love some of the moms who shamelessly dig in with appetites just that large — no doubt double-booking their Pilates instructors for the next day, but still eating well while they can.
Maybe they have the same once-a-year Dutch Baby tradition that I do, but I don't think so. If theirs was a once-a-year habit, I doubt so many of them would know their waiters by name.
