If I haven’t mentioned it yet, I’ll just lay it out there: I’m a sucker for breakfast. Pancakes, eggs, toast, morning radio, oatmeal, mugs of coffee, morning light, quiche, diners, hash browns, all of it. On our only morning in Denver, some extremely lovely and hospitable locals took us out to a great neighborhood breakfast joint (instantly winning cool people points). As we sat down and began to survey the mouthwatering menu, the cheery waitress asked us if we were new. She made recommendations, and I ordered the caprese benedict (poached eggs, fresh mozarella, basil, balsamic vinegar). Shortly thereafter, a waiter (he looked in training) came to our table, ostensibly sent by our waitress, bearing what he called their “secret pancake.” It was a cinnamon roll pancake that apparently can be ordered at any time simply by saying the words, “secret pancake.” One more time in unison, “secret pancake.” I don’t mind if they tell every new customer (or just every customer madly taking photos). That morning we shared a pancake drizzled in cinnamon, butter, and brown sugar that tasted divine, and for a moment we shared a delicious secret.