Eating L.A. Before It Eats Itself: The inexplicable joy of Original Pantry’s pancakes

Comfort food holds a particular and unique ability to pause the world and provide a singular, unadulterated moment of human bliss.

It’s 4:30 a.m. You can’t speak over the loud sizzle of butter on a massive grill, the clatter of plates as energetic bussers sweep tables clean and the drunken shouting from the boisterous tables around you. Every seat is full, despite the midnight blue sky that ushers in the morning.

Amid the chaos, you grip the handle of a mug, warm from coffee with a half-and-half and two Splendas. It is easy to get lost in the motion of the people around you swaying in their seats, stumbling to the bathroom, digging through their pockets looking for cash.

But then a singular object steaming in the distance pulls you through the noise and back to your table — three pancakes, plate-sized, piping hot.

They smile at you. It’s been too long. An irresistible aroma fills the air with swirls of toasted butter and melted sugar.  You want to embrace them — your lost loves, those pancakes. You want to kiss them and tell them you love them but you don’t know which to do first … but then you realize you’re already halfway through the plate.

This is the scenario I find myself in at least once a month at the Original Pantry Cafe. Nestled between the commercialized sprawl of L.A. Live and the den of shops at FIGat7th, the Original Pantry sits, unchanging, as warm and welcoming as I imagine it was in 1924, when it was just a kitchen in Downtown Los Angeles. It’s a relic; stepping into it feels like stepping into someone else’s dream of the early 20th century. And while the Original Pantry serves up a handful of other American classics like hamburgers, milkshakes and fries, there is nothing in the world that can compare to its pancakes.

I first visited the Pantry during my freshman year, just past midnight, clutching the wrists of two friends who had surrendered after an hour of my begging. To this day, the pull of the Pantry has been a cosmic mystery, as if Fate herself murmured in my ear, speaking sweet nothings about the sweet pancakes tucked into the skyline a mile away.

Since my first visit freshman year, the pancakes have been reliably euphoric, without a hint of variation. And it’s no surprise, given the surprising organization hidden under the chaos of the Pantry. The kitchen staff’s movements are like clockwork, visible on the griddle behind a pane of decorated glass. The griddle is divided into neat portions  — mounds of potatoes sit in a heap on one corner, a line of bacon sizzling down the middle. The pancakes dominate a corner of the griddle, scooped from a batter perfected over the decades and cooked slightly under, so when the pancakes reach your mouth, they melt on contact.

These pancakes dance on the line between delectable and decadent. Upon first glance, they appear to be nothing extraordinary, just three large pancakes in a stack, each with an even honey-colored top. But a single bite of pancake transports me into an simpler world, a sepia of emotion shaded only by the warmth and sweetness melting on my tongue. I have never felt a purer form of happiness than the happiness I feel running my fork through the tender, pillowy pancakes at the Pantry.

It’s within this pancake-flavored pleasure that I begin to understand what draws me and many other peoplew to writing about food. This simple dish, served with no extravagance or flair, has the power to transform my mood for the hour, for the day, even for the week. Food can be indicative of culture, history and family  —but it can also just be a delicious diner meal served 24 hours a day.

It is the special, peculiar power of comfort food that brings me back to those pancakes. Eating them feels like a momentary escape from existence, a visit to a realm void of problems but filled with love. Of course the Original Pantry, a place seemingly frozen in a different era, would be capable of providing me this. And now, as time passes and I am faced more and more with the hardships of adult reality, a plate of warm, fluffy pancakes is all I need to take me back into the past.

Christina Tiber is a junior majoring in psychology. Her column, “Eating L.A. Before It Eats Itself,” runs every other Thursday.