the way of all flesh--elegy for a stack of pancakes

So I just heard from my little sister Shellyjo that the greatest pancake joint north of the Rio Grande, the Omlettery, late of Austin, Texas
has
gone
downhill.

Let me tell you, their pancakes used to be as light and fluffy as Sealy Posturpedics. They used to be so chock-full of blueberries or chocolate chips that you could hardly see any pancake. They used to drip with butter and soak syrup like eager sponges. They used to arrive piping hot in the hands of an adorable 20 year old boy or girl. They used to make me buzz like a queen bee. On a Sunday morning after Bikram yoga, they were transcendent. Even my anorexic friend would eat them.

I used to dream of those pancakes. I'd make a pilgramage to Austin just to eat them.

No more.

Apparently now they are dry and skimpy on the blueberries, rubbery and just no good.

I shed a tear for what was, and what might still have been.

Omlettery pancakes, we hardly knew ye.

I regret only having eaten several dozen. If I'd known, I'd have made my home in the corner booth, right below the painting of the mystical mexican chickens, and I'd have savored every goddamned transient bite.

Alas.

But the fried egg sandwiches at the St.Francis Cafe in the Mission in San Francisco haven't failed yet.