Through the steam from my coffee, I could see a miniature set of shiny red shoes swinging back and forth under the restaurant counter. A little girl had been sitting on the red stool since I arrived, sitting watching the cook make pancakes all morning with a sense of mature fascination. Up and down, up and down, over and over again, the dough always transformed into delicious, solid creations, some with blueberries, some with chocolate, some just plain and simple. The cook sported a beautiful apron that looked like it had been around forever, cooked a million pancakes, and still lived to tell his tale of the oils, toppings, and syrups he had seen in his time. The old man's red shirt was visible through the burn holes in the apron, as if they were war wounds. The cook didn't seem to care about the heat of the stove, nor did he stir at all when the hot oil from the pan spat at his flesh. He was covered in a film of grease, butter, and dough, and only occasionally broke from his culinary rituals to wipe his forehead with the sodden cloth he carried over his left shoulder. Each pancake was a delicate creation that the old man prepared with great consideration and effort, making each one perfect, but none identical. Man would never be compared to a machine – each was original, each special. Today's special was the peanut butter pancakes, although I didn't see anyone ordering that one. The little girl with the shiny shoes, who had been there since...