We've never had such a huge bagel. Sliced three ways, layered with eggs and cheese, it was a heart attack waiting to happen. The potato pancakes were no different. But you don't go to the Suburban House to order tomato on rye with sprouts, though you could, except for the sprouts. No, Suburban House is the high-cholesterol tonic for a late night turned day, a slow rainy morning, a brain-dead Sunday slide into wakefulness. The staff is prompt and efficient, the atmosphere busy without being clanging, the vibe a cross between New York Jewish deli and Southern diner. And so is the food, in its gut-bombing warmth and familiarity. Chill with the goyim on Shabbat or join the throngs on Sunday; just give yourself time to get seated and browse the massive menu. And on the way out, get an eclair.

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