“Crêpes? Isn’t that a French thing?”

Shut your trap, Cheechako.

If a french cabin boy sailed into Thomas basin and so much as smelled the open window of Alaska Crêpe Co, he would return home a MAN. Our hearty crêpes are the love child of a lithe Parisian mistress and a burly Alaskan bear wrestler. And not a fake one with spandex. We’re talking flannel and suspenders, which in these territories are commonly employed to hog-tie a thieving bear, before prying its jaws open with one’s bare hands, in order to retrieve a stolen crêpe using one’s prehensile beard.

Why? Because our crêpes are crispy, hearty meals, generously filled with goodly amounts of sweet or savory victuals. Because they’re hand-held, not claw-held. Or worse, eaten with a fork.

And because God didn’t put us on this beautiful, rainy rock to let some ursine usurper take that which is rightfully ours.