By mid-morning the square smelled like butter and patience. A new stall had opened with no menu board at all, only a quiet row of pancakes thinking it over.
We asked at the kiosk. "We used to hurry them," said the seller, wiping a wooden spatula. "Now each one chooses. The bold ones take honey. The shy ones wait for jam and a cup of tea. Nobody is late, they are just particular."
A note in the little complaint-and-thanks book read: "Thank you for not flipping me before I was ready. The jam was kind."
The next morning the same pancake-shaped regular came back and sat at the edge of the pan until the jam nodded. The seller poured tea for both of them.