Original Pancake House: Saturday Morning Lines

Lyrics

Seven-fifty-eight a.m.
The air is already thick.
Humid Atlanta, August steam.
And something else.
Butter.
Cinnamon.
The promise coming from that low brick building.

The line starts at the glass door.
We find our place behind the Feldmans, their son is turning seven today.
He’s bouncing on his toes.
In front of them, two Emory med students, still looking tired from a night shift.
We all nod. The silent greeting of the queue.
We know the rules.
No cuts, no complaints.
Just the patient, hungry wait on the LaVista sidewalk.

And we are waiting for the Dutch Baby.
We are waiting for the Apple Pancake, bubbling in its skillet.
We are waiting for a name to be called from a worn clipboard.
This is the Original Pancake House.
This is the Saturday morning service.

Inside, it’s a controlled chaos.
The sizzle from the open kitchen.
The clink of heavy ceramic mugs.
A waitress glides past with four plates on her arm.
Our turn. A booth by the window, cracked red vinyl.
And then it arrives.
The Dutch Baby, a golden, cratered moon, dusted with powdered sugar.
A squeeze of lemon.
It collapses with a sigh.

And we are here for the Dutch Baby.
We are here for the Apple Pancake, thick with Granny Smiths and cinnamon glaze.
We are here for a name to be called from a worn clipboard.
This is the Original Pancake House.
This is the Saturday morning service.

Les Highet and Erma Haywood, did you see this coming?
Back in 1953, in Portland.
Did you imagine this parking lot in Georgia, shared with a Kroger selling kosher brisket?
Did you imagine the generations?
The grandparents who brought their kids, who now bring their kids.
The ghosts of all the line cooks whose names we never knew, flipping pancakes on this same seasoned griddle.

We pay at the register.
Push back out into the sun.
The line is longer now, snaking toward the curb.
Another family takes our place in the queue.
The seven-year-old is inside, getting his birthday pancake.
The butter and the cinnamon still hang in the air.
The service continues.