There may be no meal in America that commands more acreage than breakfast at the Original Pancake House, a massive if two-dimensional feast that covers large tabletops as thoroughly as king-size fitted sheets. Jumbo spinach crepes are served with a side of thin, LP-size potato pancakes; butter-dripping Dutch babies are the size of satellite dishes; and puffy cheese omelets, already as big as Mary Poppins' handbag, come with broad stacks of buttermilk pancakes - or, for an extra buck, an oozing payload of chocolate-chip pancakes buried underneath a shot put of freshly whipped cream. If you can see even a scrap of table underneath the barrage of sausage patties, fresh orange juice, basted eggs, stewed prunes, hash browns, strawberry waffles, Cointreau-flavored sour cream, and ham, the restaurant hasn't been doing its job. And the pancakes are pretty good too, whether made with buttermilk, sourdough starter or wheat germ and sour cream, spiked with pecans or bits of crunchy bacon, topped with pineapple or shreds of toasted coconut. The slippery 49'er Flap Jacks are especially good - extra-gooey and extra-flat, with a texture halfway between a yeasted pancake and a crepe, and a porousness that seems just right for soaking up butter and syrup. At prime brunch hours, the wait for a table can verge on the infinite, although you may be the only person in the restaurant if you show up on a Tuesday at noon. See full review.