Where The Pancakes Are

Evenings on a Wednesday for me are often spent alone in bed, propped up by a few lumpy pillows and my loyal companion, Netflix. The one that just passed was no exemption, with the addition of feeling betrayed after a solid five hours binge-watching the last episodes of The Crown, and left having to entertain myself with my nose in the BS 5500:1991 (which is, in engineering lingo, the specification for unfired fusion welded pressure vessels), looking for the definition of some Factor C.

Taking a break from the 657 or so pages of ill-sized Times New Roman that had morphed into fuzzy squiggles, I reached for my dinner, an unappealing bowl of romaine lettuce topped with slices of avocado, olive oil and seasoned with za’atar. My stomach rumbled in disappointment while my mind drifted back to my breakfast earlier that morning at Where the Pancakes Are. Yes. Where the Pancakes Are. The name of the delightful pancake house. She takes up a quiet side in Flat Iron Square, a newly opened indie street food hub away from the hustle and bustle of the nearby Borough Market. Walking in through the glass doors, shutting out the biting cold November winds, I was greeted by a room saturated with Scandinavian hygge. The railway arch was cleverly transformed into cosy space, lit up by the warm, welcoming light from the uniquely shaped lightbulb filaments. Small indoor plants adorned the wooden tables and chairs, creating a simple, homely atmosphere.

This was actually my second time visiting. The second time in a week. Quite a dedication for someone so absorbed in the exciting events in SW7, such as snoozing over morning lectures and fiddling with flanges at hours past twilight. And for a food blogger who had once set a golden rule that she never visits a restaurant more than once, this little place definitely held a strong attraction for me to visit again, much more than queues outside The Breakfast Club some 100 meters away.

The waitress gave a friendly smile and handed me the menu, along with a glass and a carafe of water. It was a simple list of pancakes, the savoury, the sweet, and their proud speciality, the Dutch Baby. Following my stack of wonderful, fluffy berries pancake from my prior visit, I went for the sweet Dutch Baby without hesitation.

While waiting for the moment of birth, I spotted the owner, Patricia’s stylish, short, blonde hair behind the counter. I introduced myself as the blogger behind the photo of her pancakes a few days back, and invited her to share her story over coffee.

Patricia lives a life surrounded by all sorts of pancakes. The large, steaming Dutch pancakes in the local pancake house during her childhood in Holland. Living off crepes on the streets of Paris as a poor student. The fluffy American pancakes during her eight years in California as a film producer, striving in the then-booming independent film industry of the 90’s. Now her own inventions in her first brick-and-mortar restaurant. All after a gentle nudge of courage, experimentation and her days serving thousands of pancakes at various festivals, which she humorously described as her “military training”.

Her strong, determined, gaze from her light blue eyes was softened by a motherly affection as she continued to describe her dreams of creating a nutritious, wholesome dining experience which this ancient, universally loved dish fuses with modern food trends. In this room, pancakes are not reserved for breakfast, but also for lunch, dinner, a full meal or a decadent snack. Her menu was not comprised of your usual, superficial, artery-clogging, syrup-soaked stacks, but an honest menu with high-quality, local ingredients, inspiration from different cultures, and most importantly, generous heaps of TLC. Behind it were sprinkles of pancake-related stories, happy memories serving waffles at school fairs and love for her two children.

Midway through our conversation, my Dutch Baby arrived on a hot, cast iron skillet of a cradle with a pot of cream, all on a wooden tray. The beautiful, peaceful baby gleamed back at me in the form of a popover, similar to a Yorkshire pudding, in the size of my face. The edges were puffed up in a glorious golden brown, giving space for the apple compote, fresh berries and toasted almond slices in the centre. I took my knife and fork, cut a rather large section, added a dollop of that sweet cream and stuffed it in my mouth impatiently. Instantly I knew there was no going back. The batter transformed into two distinct phases that complimented one another: the crispy, chewy edge and the soft, fluffy insides that had soaked up the sweet juices from the berries and apples. It was simple, and absolutely delicious. Of course it didn’t last long.

My second visit was definitely not the last. My third visit was on a bright Saturday afternoon, a mere ten days later. This time I tried something unexpected – the Australian. This was not as pancake-y as the rest, with it being a stack of corn fritters, with crushed avocado, crème fraiche, preserved lemon and a mixed leaf salad on top. The fritters were hot with a slightly crunchy edge, a good kick of saltiness and a citrusy hint from the lemon. The whole combination was light and satisfying. I was tempted to encore the berries pancake from my first visit – two thick, fluffy buttermilk pancakes with a sweet elderflower and forest berry compote, cream, crushed meringue and roasted nuts.

That, was where the pancakes were.