I can never think of pancakes without hearing this line from Mitch
Hedberg’s Strategic Grill Locations (a comedy album that
changed my life): “As a comedian, you have to start the show strong and
you have to end the show strong. You can’t be like pancakes—all
exciting at first, but then by the end you’re fuckin’ sick of them.” I
think that’s part of the reason why pancakes and I have long shared a
mutual indifference. I just wasn’t that into them. (Listen, pancakes:
It’s not me; it’s TOTALLY you.) Pancakes would just sit there, limp and
sticky, not looking at me, and not caring if I liked them or not. Then
pancakes would go in the garbage and I would go looking for bacon.
That was before Lola (2000 Fourth Ave, 441-1430), Tom
Douglas’s Greekish incarnation, revealed unto me its breakfast. The
pancakes at Lola are perfect. They are fluffy and large and brown. They
are also expensive ($12 for two). Their fried edges have that little
bit of crunch—the most important part of a pancake, I
say—and they come with a side of incredible house-made sausage
that I used to be obsessed with before I got it in my head that it
tastes “too organy.” (I’m probably wrong, but I substitute bacon
now.)
The pancakes are accompanied by some sort of preserved berry-fruit
that I invariably ignore (another Hedberg line: “I put fruit on top of
my waffles, because I want something to brush off”), but whatever. The
very, very, very best thing about Lola pancakes—the thing that
keeps me going back (weekly, for a short, expensive, ill-advised
while)—is the small tub of vanilla mascarpone. It’s like butter,
but creamier. It’s like whipped cream, but butterier. It’s like
frosting, except it doesn’t make you want to barf. At ALL. I like to
spread it on each bite individually, with very little syrup.
When I met the Lola pancakes it was like I was that guy who looks
like evil Chad Michael Murray and pancakes were Mandy Moore, who’s
Christian but somehow pretty (!?!), and I made fun of pancakes at
school, but then I realized that what I was secretly feeling was TRU
LUV! (In this metaphor, I suppose vanilla mascarpone represents Mandy
Moore’s astounding vocal performance in the school play.) Anyway, then
pancakes and I took a Walk to Remember. (Then pancakes died of
cancer? Wait.)
As a newly self-identified pancake lover, I started seeking them out
everywhere I went. Most were disappointing (pancakes are a harsh
mistress). But at Ballard’s homespun gee-shucks Original Pancake
House (8037 15th Ave NW, 781-3344) I found something special. Its
menu offers approximately 800 types of pancake, including buckwheat
pancakes (hearty, $7.25 for three), apple pancakes (caramelized, $10.50
for one), and “49er Flap Jacks” (chewy, buttery, AMAZING, $8.25 for
three). But then, one special day, I found BACON PANCAKES. This
incredible invention ($7.25 for three) demands little explanation. It’s
a pancake with crumbled bacon in it, and it’s probably not anything
that a human should ever, ever eat. But put some syrup on there. Have
some coffee. Sweet Mandy Moore H. Christ, is it good. 
