Some things in life are constant. For some people it’s a favorite hymn or a favorite breed in a family dog. For me, it’s music, football, Mississippi—and pancakes.
In sixty-three years, I’ve probably eaten more pancakes than any other food. They’ve been a part of my life from the beginning. My first real food memory is sitting at a kitchen table eating pancakes with too much butter and even more syrup. That memory’s been on repeat, in one form or another, for over six decades.
When you stop and think about it, pancakes are always served with love. Outside of a restaurant, has anyone ever handed you a plate of pancakes that wasn’t made by someone who loves you?
That was true with my grandmother, who we called Muz. She lived in New York with my grandfather during the first ten years of my life. Anytime we visited her up north—or she visited us down here—she made pancakes. Always from scratch. Never from a box. No mixes, no shortcuts, no plastic bottles shaped like a woman named Jemima. And always with care.
Her side of the family came from Nashville, and her pancake recipe came with them. It was different. At friends’ houses, I’d eat Bisquick pancakes—fine enough, I guess, but mostly a vehicle for syrup. Muz’s pancakes had flavor. Real flavor. Not “hints of” or “notes of”—just flat-out delicious. They were slightly delicate, but not crepes.
Muz wasn’t French.
She was Presbyterian.
I spent more time growing up with my other grandmother, my dad’s mom, since she lived right here in Hattiesburg. I’d sleep over, and every morning, she’d ask what I wanted for breakfast. My answer was always the same: pancakes.
I don’t remember this next part, but the story’s been told enough times to qualify as family scripture. Evidently, one morning I told her that her pancakes weren’t as good as Muz’s. The unfiltered honesty of a five-year-old. Bless her. Instead of being hurt, she picked up the phone, called my other grandmother in New York, and got her recipe. That was the kind of woman she was. And from that point forward, I was spoiled with Muz’s pancakes whether I was up north, down south, or at home with my mother.
We never really took family vacations. We didn’t have the money for weeks at the beach. But we had a single-wide trailer down on the Pascagoula River. A fish camp with screen doors that slammed too loud and floors that creaked. Muz would mix the dry ingredients at home and bring them along. Most mornings started with her pancakes. You’d wake to the sound of bacon grease popping, the clatter of plates, and the smell of something familiar.
Fast forward fifty years, and I now own a restaurant that serves thousands of pancakes a week. At The Midtowner, we serve them with warm maple syrup, but if you’re in the know—and you have the confidence to whisper like you’re asking for the good bourbon at a Baptist wedding—we keep Steen’s Cane Syrup behind the counter.
Steen’s Cane Syrup comes from Abbeville, Louisiana. It’s been made the same way for over 100 years. They press 100% sugarcane juice and boil it down until it thickens—nothing else added, nothing taken away. What you get is a rich, deep, complex syrup that tastes of the fields it came from. It’s bold. It’s pure. It’s Southern. And unlike maple syrup, I don’t pour it over pancakes. I keep it in a little ramekin on the side and dip each bite in, just enough to coat it.
There’s also a pancake tip I’ve passed along over the years—one that surprises people until they try it. Add a pinch of salt. Just a sprinkle over the top before the syrup goes on. It doesn’t make the pancake salty. It enhances everything else. Trust me. It’ll change your pancake game.
Lately at The Midtowner, we’ve been running a special: the Pancake Sampler. One regular buttermilk pancake. One sweet potato pancake. One blueberry pancake. One chocolate chip pancake. They come with four syrups: maple, cinnamon cream, Steen’s cane, and buttermilk syrup.
People are skeptical about the salt tip. But they’re even more skeptical about buttermilk syrup. I get it. It doesn’t sound like something that belongs on pancakes.
That changed when I visited one of Chef Ford Fry’s restaurants in Atlanta. Fry is one of my favorite chefs in the South. Originally from Houston, he’s built an empire of great restaurants across Atlanta and beyond. Several of his Tex-Mex spots serve brunch, and one day I ordered a single pancake for the table to share—just a side item with a bunch of egg dishes. It came with buttermilk syrup.
It was a revelation.
I ordered a second.
Light, sweet, slightly tangy, and perfectly balanced. The pancake was good. The syrup was magic. I never would’ve ordered it on my own, but I was so glad I tried it.
So when we built the Pancake Sampler at The Midtowner, I knew we needed buttermilk syrup to round out the lineup.
What happened next wasn’t planned, but it changed everything.
One morning, while testing the flight of pancakes and syrups before the rollout, I spilled a little cane syrup into the buttermilk syrup. That accident might go down as one of the best things that’s ever happened in my kitchen, and one of the best mistakes I’ve ever made.
I tasted it. Then I tasted it again. Then I passed it around the kitchen.
To my knowledge, that blend—equal parts cane syrup and buttermilk syrup—is brand new to the pancake world. And I say that as a six-decade veteran of pancake eating.
It was smooth, sweet, deep, and bright all at once. The cane syrup gave it weight. The buttermilk gave it lift. You could put it on a piece of cardboard and still come away smiling.
We don’t advertise it. You’ve got to know to ask. And if you’re really playing the long game—wanting to reach elite level—ask for a ramekin of drawn butter on the side and throw a pinch of salt on the pancake.
It’s not just breakfast. It’s a love letter in syrup.
So here we are. A boy who once told his grandmother her pancakes didn’t measure up. A man who eats them most every day. A restaurant full of syrup secrets and one mistake that turned out better than the plan.
Some people have legacies made from land and money. Mine, it seems, is griddled and served with love.
Some things change. Pancakes don’t have to.
Onward.
