"Ha! You're not going to believe this," he said to his two buddies. "I asked that girl if this O.J. was fresh-squeezed, and she says it is. The hell it is! I been coming here for years, and it was always fresh-squeezed. But this here is different. This ain't fresh-squeezed."
When the unsuspecting waitress returned, he pounced on her as though he'd just discovered she killed Kennedy. "You lied!" he said. "I know my fresh-squeezed, and this is crap!" The waitress rolled her eyes and stood her ground. "Well," she replied, "technically, you're right. This is something new called 'Odwalla's Fresh-Squeezed,' or something like that. I did think it was fresh, and that girl over there, she's been waitressin' here since it opened, and she says the juice hasn't changed. But if you mean did we stand back there and squeeze the crap outta a bunch of oranges, you're right, we didn't. But we get this stuff trucked in here every day, and it was squeezed by someone very recently. It's not concentrate." And with that, she turned and went about her business.
"She just lost her tip," Mr. Fresh-Squeezed told his chortling pals.
Another day in the life of a breakfast waitress at the Sunnyside Up Cafe--or the Breakfast Palace, depending on when you first discovered this shoebox of a place. Tom Hansen opened the Sunnyside Up at 2000 South Broadway in 1990; he sold the restaurant a little over a year ago to Nick Stefanoudakis, who'd run the Breakfast Palace at 38th Avenue and Federal Boulevard for fifteen years. After Stefanoudakis sold the original Breakfast Palace (that address is currently occupied by the Breakfast Queen), many of his faithful customers made the move with him to South Broadway--and now he doesn't know what to call the place. "It costs a lot of money to change everything on the books," Stefanoudakis says. "I guess I could change the sign, but I've just been telling everybody that this is now the Breakfast Palace. I didn't want to lose the old customers, you know."
Not his old customers, and not the Sunnyside Up's old customers, either. So while Stefanoudakis replaced the orange juice with Odwalla (it's delicious), he's continued the old Sunnyside tradition of serving it in a glass champagne flute and charging just a buck. He kept the Sunnyside Up sign outside the restaurant, too, but also painted the windows with the same neon messages that used to grace the Breakfast Palace, advertising specials: "Bacon & Eggs $2.79," "Short Stack $1.99."
Stefanoudakis won't need to wash those windows anytime soon; although the bacon-and-eggs combo is listed on the menu at $3.99, it's been on sale every time I've visited over the past eight months. At either price, it's a bargain: The eggs are always cooked just right--the kitchen will even poach 'em if you want--and the bacon (three slices to an order) is thick-cut and evenly cooked. Beside the bacon and eggs comes a mountain of Idaho home fries, grated so fine that they almost turn to mashed potatoes on the grill and covered with a smooth, golden shell. Only once did these spuds taste frozen; on a half-dozen other visits, they were obviously freshly made, if not squeezed. And the kitchen doesn't skimp on other extras, including fancy jams: I've had the pleasure of smearing Smuckers apple-cinnamon and blackberry-lemon jellies on the thick slice of butter-saturated Texas toast that comes with each breakfast.
The same bread was used for the French toast ($2.79), three slices already so full of butter that they could hardly stand up to the whipped ball of the stuff that sat melting on top and completely surrendered to the good-quality syrup that arrived warm (nice touch). That syrup, thicker and less sweet than cheap brands, also soaked right into an order of buttermilk pancakes ($2.79), plate-sized cakes that were nicely done, bubbly around the edges and perfectly browned. And while the three-egg omelette ($3.99) was no French masterpiece, the "meat lover's" version--full of sausage, ham and bacon--got the job done; for another 50 cents, the kitchen will throw in a ton of cheddar and Jack cheese, too.
More cheese blanketed the jumbo sausage burrito supreme platter ($3.99), which, in case you couldn't tell from the name, was a truly huge meal. A pile of scrambled eggs and spicy sausage had been tucked into a flour tortilla, sided with red beans and rice, topped with lettuce, tomato and cheese, and smothered in green chile. The combination was fine except for the thin chile, which had big chunks of pork but no pork flavor. (The only thing more watery than Sunnyside's green chile is its disappointing coffee.)
Although breakfast is clearly the meal of choice here, I once ventured over to the "lunch and dinner" portion of Sunnyside's menu. Since the place is open only until 2 p.m., there's not much emphasis on dinner entrees. Still, the half-pound jumbo burger ($3.99) wasn't bad, and a mound of medium-thick crispy fries added only 50 cents to the tab. And while the noodles in the lasagna "Napoli" platter ($3.99) were mushy and the meat sauce your basic gravy-like red, I did like the surprise inclusion of spinach.
All in all, Sunnyside Up is bargain city, which helps explain its appeal to the senior citizens and working stiffs who make up the bulk of the regular crowd. I've also spotted quite a few yuppies looking decidedly out of their element amid the pastel pink and green vinyl tablecloths and the plants in plastic pots. But the waitresses, all of whom look like breakfast-joint lifers, don't discriminate. They treat all their customers--even the cranky ones--the same. To these women, every diner is a "honey."
A few miles south, the staffers are just as smooth but the surroundings a bit spiffier at the Original Pancake House in Littleton. Erma Hueneke and Lester Highet opened the original Original Pancake House in Portland in 1953; this spot was the chain's first Denver outpost. It's owned by Sara Hueneke, one of Erma's relatives (Sara's father also owns three Originals), and Larry Fitzpatrick, who started out as a dishwasher at another Original Pancake House in 1979.
There may be 79 other Original Pancake Houses out there, but this restaurant feels like one of a kind thanks to its homey decor (the knotty-pine interior filled with antique plates is patterned after the original Original's) and high-quality food. The kitchen makes a big deal out of using such ingredients as real whipping cream, stone-ground wheat flour and old-fashioned sourdough starter, and it shows in the finished product. For example, copious amounts of whipped cream topped the chocolate-chip pancakes ($5.75), the best I've ever eaten. The pile of cakes was studded with Ghiardelli chocolate chips, its top a puddle of melted chocolate-chip goo, into which the whipped cream had melted. This was dessert for breakfast.
But the Pancake House does right by pancakes in two dozen other ways. The Granny Smith ($7.50) was another favorite, a German-style pancake the size of a floppy hat, covered with oven-baked apples and a sugar-soaked cinnamon glaze. The potato pancakes ($6.50) were wonderful, too, a half-dozen semi-soft, semi-crunchy disks cooked French-fry golden on the outside with soft centers inside. Nearly every dish we tried was overly generous; if you don't like to waste food (pancakes aren't noted for their ability to keep), a half-order of the puffy sourdough flapjacks ($4) served with hot syrup should be just right for the average eater.
A side of corned beef hash ($4) brought plenty of corned brisket "hashed" with potatoes and onions (a tad too many onions for my taste, but onion lovers will rejoice). It's probably a better choice than the side of thick-sliced bacon ($3); unless I specifically ask the waitress to make sure it's cooked through, the bacon always comes out half-floppy, half-crisp. And given the quality of the pancakes, I was disappointed by the plain waffle ($4.25): It was too soft, with no crisp crannies to prevent the waffle from going completely soggy in the butter.
The eggs Benedict ($8.25), though, were done right, with real, made-to-order Hollandaise and good grilled ham. And although the mushroom omelette ($7) here wasn't any fancier than Sunnyside Up's, it was respectable, topped with a rich, if over-thickened, sherry-kissed mushroom sauce. The omelettes come with three buttermilk pancakes; if any diner has ever polished off an entire plate, I hope he gets his cholesterol level checked regularly.
Considering the neighborhood--the Pancake House is next door to an Old Navy store at the edge of a plaza that also contains an Alfalfa's--you'd think the waitstaff would get less grief from the customers. But no. On Sundays, people who should know better still carp about having to wait an hour for brunch (hey--either go on Saturday or shut up). And you can never predict when you'll get diners like one woman I sat next to, who near the end of her breakfast sent back her almost completely consumed coffee, eggs and toast, claiming they'd all turned "bad." I'd ordered the same meal, bacon and eggs ($6), and found nothing to complain about: The eggs were an impeccable over-easy, sided by three fluffy buttermilk pancakes.
But at least her complaints were creative. "Miss," she told the server, "this toast is too hard for my teeth."
The waitress, bless her heart, tried to be patient--and, when the cranky customer finally left, was rewarded by a 25-cent tip. It reminded me of a line from one of those Life's Little Instruction Book knockoffs that list hints on leading a good life. Somewhere in the middle I'd found this gem: "Always Overtip Breakfast Waitresses."
First, of course, you have to eat breakfast. A meal at either of these restaurants is an unbeatable way to start the day. Tip accordingly.
Sunnyside Up Cafe, 2000 South Broadway. 698-0685. Hours: 6 a.m.-2 p.m. daily.
Original Pancake House, 5900 South University Boulevard, Littleton, 795-0573. Hours: 6 a.m.-2 p.m. daily.
