The most dangerous two word combo in the English language is "breakfast buffet". Dangerous because if it's a new one, I will tend to leave my tire rubber signature in the middle of the road out front as I go screaming into the parking lot, appetite at the ready, to sample their fare. I am a breakfastaholic. Breakfast is the perfect meal. Eggs, milk, pork, grain, fiber, fruits and vegetables...all deliciously served without being hidden in some crazed casserole or complicated mixture. No, it's all right out front and in multiple forms. How do you like your eggs? Grits or hash browns? White or wheat toast...or biscuits...or muffins...or bagels? Grape jelly...strawberry jam...or are you a mixed fruit person? Breakfast is just like Star Trek's Vulcan IDIC philosophy of "Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combination".
This morning, after a week of fast food pre-fab fare, I treated myself to my local Golden Corral which is a selective breakfast buffet...saturday and sunday only...and, as such, is almost like a big event! There should have been streamers and flags and clowns and a local radio station doing a live remote there. Thankfully, there was just me and about a half dozen other people who showed up a few minutes early to get first dibs of the fresh items inside. Once in the building, we stood in queue waiting for the register people to ring us up. The conversation between the others, three gentlemen and three ladies of varying age from around 35ish to 75ish, was all auto racing...as was the stretched shirts and caps the gentlemen were wearing. Local boy Tony Stewart had won at Darlington the night before amidst a string of accidents that caused more debate among the populace than Rev. Wright. Now, I admit I'm not up on my NASCARabulary...I wholeheartedly admit I only watch races to see cars crash (and I do not "read" Playboy), so I tuned out as best I could the heated discussion over whether Kyle Busch had a reason to be angry about smacking the wall. Besides, my mind was already on the other side of the register taking stock of all the lip-smacking, mouth-watering selections eagerly awaiting me in their water heated trays...the cook busily preparing more freshly scrambled egg substitute in bulk...a young lady chop-chop-chopping peppers for omelets.
In the midst of the argument over how many races Stewart had won this season versus the team, a nice yound lady approaced the register and the gates opened and the cattle were led to slaughter...and what a way to go! I danced past the selections as I carried my tray to a corner table, then raced (but did not wreck) to the bacon and sausage between the cook and the dessert station. I know they utilize almost an entire hog for food and I'm not sure what part of the average hog is responsible for bacon and there is that chance that I don't want to know, but I love the stuff. When I die, the three flavors I'll miss most is Coke, cheesecake and bacon. So I loaded the plate with artery hardening goodness and then buddied them up with some fluffy egg substitute. That was a good start and back to my table I went. My server Tony had already written his name in big black Sharpie on my receipt, had filled my cup with coffee and had loaded me down with three more plates in anticipation of my feast. Since they always tend to bring you more plates than you really use, I wondered how many "clean" plates get washed over and over before someone breaks down and covers it with food just for the sake of convenience. Hey, I'm not paying their water bill, right? Back to the bacon.
No long strips and not too well done...ah, truly "hog heaven". I ate my first plateful and watched as other people made their way into the restaurant. Buffets are one of the worst people watching places because we (I can say this about buffet people without guilt because I am their king) tend to be very similar. First off, let's face it, none of us are anorexically thin. There are a few buffeters (as king, I reserve the right to name our society) who display a high metabolism and as such, can fit into clothes that do not cost $2 extra at Wal-Mart. But the majority of us, myself included, proudly display our all-consuming love of buffets, some of it displayed out of the bottom of our favorite "Family Guy" t-shirt. The only time you'll see thin, beautiful people at a buffet is at a fancy wedding reception or a high limit Vegas casino.
Couples all come in the same way. The wife leads the way, the husband dutifully follows with the tray looking at the food as he passes. With families, the husband, tray in hand, leads as the wife looks for the bigger table and keeps the kids from running all over the buffet area looking for the ice cream machine and commenting negatively at the salad station. Give a kid a buffet and a plate and you've unleashed Hell's fury, God help us all.
I reach down to my plate for more bacon and grab a handful of egg sub. I ate it all rather subconsciously...and rather quickly. Three big boys from a local fire department just walked in and they look like bacon eaters for sure, so I hurriedly grab the next plate in the stack and beeline for the bacon tray. This time I couple it with two sausage links (no sense being a pig about it...okay, I promise...no more pork jokes) and some biscuits and gravy. Tony has refilled my coffee cup by the time I get back and is off talking to a couple of his fellow employees about Kyle Busch hitting that wall at Darlington. Maybe it's the radio thing with me, or maybe I'm just too perceptive about mundane things, but I have noticed their music source inside the restaurant is in some kind of seek mode. It's switching between different songs in different formats, giving us a sample of various songs. It goes from Perez Prado to the Rolling Stones to the New York Philharmonic to Nirvana to Trisha Yearwood to Spyro Gyra to...well, you get the picture. At first, I thought maybe the manager was looking for a song he liked, but as I thought that, he came around the corner, smile slapped on his face, greeting people at their tables and making sure they were enjoying their breakfast. I was hoping he wouldn't see me in the corner...no such luck. As it happens, he and I shared the same, sad name and we talked of all the variants and nicknames we have suffered thru in our lives before he dashed off to order an employee to restock the corned beef hash for an elderly gentleman.
Plate two is empty and I debate whether to go for thirds when I see a kitchen staffer refill the bacon tray. Good answer. Round three is bacon, sausage and...ah, what the hell...the aforementioned corned beef hash. I like that stuff in moderation. I thought about cereal...they have Lucky Charms with the marshmallows...but decide this round of bacon should do the trick. Again, Tony has topped off my coffee AND left me two more containers of cream. Now that's service. He's going to get the full $2 tip I had taken off my credit card when I paid for this meal. As I eat, drum beats begin somewhere close in no discernable rhythm followed by what sounds like a stampede in the distance. I have to know what that noise is and soon I discover an automatic potato peeler in the corner of the kitchen. It looks like a giant Bingo machine as it tumbles taters around the drum stripping them of their skin in preparation for the day's menu. They go thru this process with four or five boxes of spuds while I'm there and I think of the abuse some of those potatoes will take during the day...beaten, stripped and mashed. I never thought the food industry could be so violent.
All baconed out, I turn over my receipt so Tony will know not to refill the cup or waste more clean plates on my account and I drop the $2 on my table. I waddle...er...walk past the register where another group of my people plunk down their dollars and take their trays full of plates and cups and utensils, appetites at the ready to consume their fair share...and maybe someone else's...of unlimited morning delights.
5/10/08
