Through the steam of the 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, watching the cook flipping pancakes all morning with a mature sense of fascination. Up and down, and up and down, over and over, the batter 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 the tale of oils, seasonings, and syrups he had seen in his time. The old man's red shirt showed through the burns on his apron, as if they were war wounds. The cook didn't seem to mind the heat of the stove, or move at all as the boiling oil from the pan spat out onto his meat. He was covered in a film of grease, butter and batter, and only occasionally interrupted his cooking rituals to wipe his forehead with the wet, soggy rag 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 no two the same. That man would never be compared to any machine: each was original, each special. The special of the day was peanut butter pancakes, although I didn't see anyone ordering them. The little girl with the shiny shoes, who had been there for...