We've all heard of cults. Heaven's Gate, The Ant Hill Kids, Tesla owners, and Jonestown, to name a few. But one cult has been lurking, growing, and thriving in its nefarious, brooding light openly in the suburbs of the uppity areas of Central New Jersey. I'm not referring to the Freemasons, or the never-ending corridors of elk's lodges, but I am speaking of the legions of fans of a local chain of pancake-eateries, PJ's Pancake House (hereon out referred to as PJ's). Like the Stasi of East Germany, if you dare speak ill of this fabled establishment, you will be swiftly told that your opinion is wrong and swarms of PJ's enthusiasts will vanquish you to the shadow realm, never to be heard from again. I've had my fair share of pancakes in my thirty five years of existence, and I've dabbled in a few cults, so I deduced that now would be the best time to combine my two favorite hobbies.
The stage was set. Girlfriend. Period. Pancakes. I was awoken to the sound of my lover demanding pancakes; a morning treat that she so deeply loves while her form pays for the sins of Eve. I wiped clean my eyes and consented, knowing full well not to unleash the wrath of the gentler sex. She asked if we could take the trip to PJ's knowing that I have yet to experience all that it has to offer. I do not enjoy crowds, so Sunday brunch at a popular establishment at noon o clock disgusted me, and as I told my beau this, I quickly succumbed to her wishes when I noticed her nostrils flaring and her talons taking aim at my face. We quickly hoped in my car and departed; next stop, pancake bliss....or so I thought.
As we drove through the country fields, my mind began to wander. My mouth was ready to taste the sweet, sweet nectar of maple syrup and panned cakes, and my mind was ready to digest the sweet, sweet message of the cult. I fantasized of sitting in a plush, booth seat, devouring my pancakes as scores of cultmembers sat beside me, chanting in musical, rhythmic beauty, "one of us...one of us...:" The GPS displayed that we were two minutes away, my mind began to race. "What if I'm not ready for this? What if this changes my life for the better? For the worse?" One minute, the GPS showed. "Is it too late to turn around? Would my love be okay with Teddy's in Cranbury instead? Oh, Lord, please help me, please, I beg of you."
"We're here" stated my darling, in a deep, guttural tone that could only mean her mission was underway. We parked in one of the few empty spots and I glanced at the restaurant. The seating area outside was completely full. Plate upon plate of gluttonous sin littered each table as people munched and downed their breakfasts. As we walked towards the door, more large groups sat outside, clearly waiting for tables to become available. "New initiates" I chuckled to myself. We walked inside.
The host was nowhere to be found. Other groups were crowded around the host stand, vying for position, ready to show PJ himself that they were the most worthy, the most ready to show their devotion, of all the groups. When the host appeared, it became apparent that any enthusiasm was left in the back. He asked how many people in my party and then said "thirty minutes" and walked away. How would he even know my name? Or how would I know when my table's ready? There were no vibrating/flashing coaster looking things that other restaurants use. It dawned on me as we sat outside, a smile growing across my face, as I realized that this was the first test.
After five minutes the host came outside, looked around, and asked my dearly loved if we wanted to sit. He informed us that the bar had two open seats and we could take them if we wanted to forgo a table. We eagerly accepted and walked inside, smiling as other parties of two sat outside, bewildered by PJs arrogance. "Perhaps they can sense that I am the most worthy" I thought to myself.
We were led inside by the host who left us at the bar. We sat upon the two empty stools and I quickly noticed how small they were. I am not a large man, and though I have dabbled in the art of squatestry at the gym, I couldn't help but feel extremely uncomfortable with how small the seating area of the stool was. No matter which angle I took, I knew that the stool stood in between myself and the masterful PJ. I went to look at my menu, but in my stoolemma failed to notice that the host did not provide us with menus. "How do they expect us to order?" I whispered to my girl, nervous that big brother would hear me. I looked over at her and, with a knife and fork in each hand, heard her growl "PANCAKES" as she banged her silverware on the counter. I was then hit by menus as a braindead zombie waiter threw his stack of menus into the pile, or rather at me.
Ran out of characters for the review. Food was just okay and the service was god-awful. I give it a D- and two Guy Fieri thumbs down. Did not live up to the hype and was overpriced. read more