Is it us, or does every place that calls itself a “pancake house” put out flapjacks as dense and heavy as manhole covers? We’d just as soon make our own pancakes as eat them here, but the thin, overstuffed housemade blintzes and juicy, house-roasted ham are a different story. So is the perfectly sassy service, which—unless you’re living with a particularly trying girlfriend/mother/sister—is pretty much impossible to replicate.
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