The pancakes aren't that big—it's the plate that's small.

The place: Tbsp

The wait: We arrived at 1pm and, starving, glanced around anxiously for the hostess. No one seemed to know who should be seating us. After we were awkwardly scoping out the baked-goods case for a while, a waiter told us it’d be about five minutes. There were seats available, but places needed to be cleared. Soon enough we were led to a table in the back of the restaurant.

The deal: There’s no prix fixe, no bread basket, and the entrées (just six choices) don’t arrive with hearty extras. In fact, they are pretty darn small. Case in point: the optical illusion in the pancake photo. Those carb-heavy delights are not huge; the plate they’re on is tiny. So what are you here for? The location, the cheerful atmosphere and the fresh ingredients. Oh, and the cupcakes on display up front look good.

Delicious? Here’s the good news: The double-smoked organic bacon is a true treat ($4). The bread, from Balthazar, is seriously tasty. The fresh-squeezed orange juice is perfectly pulpy. And “Spoons Famous Buttermilk Pancakes” ($10) are quite nice—incredibly light and just slightly sweet. Unfortunately, they’re not even remotely filling. And here’s the rest of the bad news: This restaurant has some serious issues with eggs. I ordered the “Baked Eggs in a Skillet” ($11.50) and received two gelatinous, overcooked eggs glued to a layer of brown hash, the flavors of which were entirely indistinguishable (according to the menu, it’s made of potatoes, homemade sausage, shiitake mushrooms, spinach and Parmesan). Who knew? But back to the eggs. “What are the eggs supposed to be like?” I asked my waiter. “Slightly undercooked—runny,” he told me. I pointed out that my eggs were cooked through and had the texture of rubber cement. I asked for new eggs. He said okay. Here’s where the, ahem…

…service comes in. I waited and waited and waited while my skillet filled with hash grew cold. My friend finished her plate. I picked at my hash, ate my toast and ate her bacon. Finally, a waitress came over. “Can I clear your plate?” she asked. “Um, actually, I’m still waiting for my eggs. He said they’d redo them. Could you get him?” Five minutes passed, and my waiter reluctantly returned. “Uh, the chef said he would have to redo the whole dish to give you those eggs. So, I could do a pair of fried eggs?” “Sure,” I say. Seconds later, cold overcooked fried eggs arrive at the table. We get the check.

The verdict: The Flatiron District is lacking in brunch spots. Alas, this cutesy addition doesn’t help much. Go for a late afternoon coffee (it’s good!) and a pastry instead.—Julia Israel