Restaurant Review, IHOP 632 Sycamore Avenue Vista, CA 92083

Restaurant Review, IHOP  632 Sycamore Avenue  Vista, CA  92083

The grumpy concern of Server Joyce helps with her flip-flop handling of my red velvet pan combo on a brisk blue day by this moon crescent seat, so I trace Sycamore back to its blue avenue of passing greys when Island Tabasco reigns over Heinz 57 in wetness like red puddles hanging beyond reflecting yolk.  7-Eleven and IHOP serve red velvet goods that aren’t crumby yet taste like divine redness topped with blurry atmospheres to designate the bottom fragiles.  Of IHOP’s wiry hashbrowns or thinner sausage links, I try to imagine a giant breakfast of abnormal twin plates as one meal puzzle over distinguished combinations until my tiny mouth sandwich rains with old fashioned syrup and Neufchâtel Icing.  “Manners isn’t just going out to dinner!”  I haven’t received all of IHOP’s oldest news because the pancake company avoids their past mascots at many cardinal joints; my pleasure of dining money is mysteriously unfounded on diving sunsets, so IHOP in Ventura and IHOP in Vista.  It’s interesting that IHOP calls a pile of pancakes short when they’re bigger than lots of things that bug me like tealights and trainer buttons; there’s a click that gets me from the revolution of burns which only gets more complex with Server Joyce’s shuffling physics: I get a cost on a price, then she deserves honey mustard along floors of professional liberty.  Let’s just try to dust away the sugar and find sweet compromise, since seasonal pancakes can dress the freckley white plates on their sides with American exotics and crispy sharing, not to mindfully ignore tongue-watering rings with circled onion slices and my personal homebound favorita: Chicken Strips with the vanished dip, bumpy-fried with milder brown hues for their slightly coarse textures and monster shrimp appearances.  So I get a pan combo with links and yolk: fast break!  I’m always a guest one (deniable generalization) for one Pepsi Diet without following obvious steps or using commonplace threats: twisting potato slivers onto my hard meal carry thing, relishing cakey eggs, completing a buttermilk survey for brief offers, entering my munching sounds with transcending judgment for IHOP.  Did I mention that pepper is sandy?  My delicious exaggerations are memes of urban absorption, thus I tickle cheese on a monster before IHOP rids the shining carafes and I kiss their grill by absorbing a sandwich.  These teeth drip with soft chews, so I hurt ice cream over and over again.  After those rising morning eats resemble comfortable accidents if just remarkable solutions also, where’s our vacation histories while IHOP’s coffee paintings loom around their Vista’s edged construction joint?  Maybe IHOP just needs among other prizes a few more crackers and 4D Uniforms, admitting here my cranking opinion about ketchup streams and cupped ranch.