In his book Eat Me, notable flapjack flipper Kenny Shopsin writes of pancakes: “They are flour and milk drowned in butter and some form of sugar. They’re crap.” We love crap!
● Clinton Street Baking Company (Lower East Side) – Even fashion x-rays throw carb-rexia to the wind for these scrumptious slapjacks. Blueberry buttermilk ‘cakes are the fairest of them all. Fluffy pillows of the nutritionally void. Unlike socks-n-sandals or back hair, it is totally acceptable to order a supper stack. ● Tom’s Restaurant (Prospect Heights) – Born back in ’36 and still rolling with the whippersnappers. Harvest pancakes studded with tryptophan BFFs cranberries and sweet corn — b.y.o. turkey gristle. Lemon ricotta with lime butter, famous banana walnut, boy. Free coffee, cookies, and lollipops while you wait. Old but spry. ● Public (Nolita) – Nerdy library gimmick can’t obfuscate simple beauty of coconut plus ricotta plus mango plus pancake. Pour out some ginger lime sizzurp. Books are for wussies and tropical fruit is for men. Save some room for kangaroo too.
● Shopsin’s General Store (Lower East Side) – Much like cranky owner Kenny Shopsin, these pancake flavors are tripping balls. Mac and cheese, s’mores, butterscotch, the ever popular “slutty” — infused with the essence of stripper perfume, Parliament Lights, and pumpkin. Put years on your life by memorizing your order (“Tasty II”) before approaching diminutive Essex Street Market stall; the pancake Nazi don’t play. ● Balthazar (Soho) – Though scenetastic breakfast starts many a player’s day at McNally’s faux bistro original, apple cinnamon pancakes are for the people and thus only available during weekend brunch. Do like the tourists: smother it in maple syrup and don’t look back. Plus bowls of coffee to make your teeth grind. ● Norma’s (Midtown West) – Come early, leave poor. Burger Joint’s evil twin pumps out clever hotcakes — think lemon mousse, hot chestnut, dollops of Devonshire cream. A mere $20-plus per stack. Awesome place to squire treating in-laws. Just beware the OJ hustle: waiters swoop in with pitchers of spendy “fresh-squeezed” and fill you up before you can say boo. ● Sarabeth’s (Upper East Side) – Lemon and ricotta buttermilk delights — worth braving Connecticut’s embassy to the UES. Easy-listening jams and cozy pastel space puts a happy face on patrons’ rotting souls. Bring kids or rent some. Xoxo. ● Kitchenette (Tribeca) – Country kitchen with kitschy ‘50s charm and oh-so-modern ‘tude flips up griddle goodies galore. Four-grain ‘cakes come berried, lumberjacked (add two eggs and bacon), or Bridgehampton, baby — shrunk to silver dollar size and slathered in yogurt. For the alcoholics among us, available until 4:30 in the pm. ● Good Enough to Eat (Upper West Side) – Say it three times fast with a hangover: Peter Paul pancakes, please. Tongue twisters thankfully go down easier than ’09 Lohan with Belgian chocolate and coconut. Or opt for single, massive apple ‘jack decorated in cinnamon sugar and sour cream. Disarmingly friendly farmhouse may promote paranoia: There must be spit in my pink lemonade! Relax. ● Bubby’s (Tribeca) – Rib-stickin’ Southern cookin’—also the name for your belly after inhaling a stack of extra fluffy sour cream slapjacks. Banana walnut version claims to be sautéed, but doubtful your arteries can tell the difference. Perfect double shot of nostalgia and cholesterol. Is that Harvey Keitel?!