The All-You-Can-Eat Buffet …an American Institution. There is probably nothing that a guy who loves food gets a bigger woody over than an all-you-can-eat mange fest. Go to one of those Sunday buffets and you are truly in hog heaven. I love the one’s that have SO many different choices that heart surgeons are waiting in the foyer to save your ass if needed.

You walk into the room and epicurean bliss is yours. First is the carving station where several dudes in puffy chef hats are slicing a giant roast beef, mouth watering fresh turkey, and a glazed ham so large you could drop it on the Taliban and they’d never be heard from again. They’ve got those mondo carving knives and a neat little red lamp for keeping your meat hot and juicy. Of course you are always first in line cause as the saying goes, “Move it or lose it.”

“Yes, yes, several more slices, uh-huh, that’s it, pile it on my good man, I’ll tell you when to stop. I said, I’ll tell you when to stop. Hey, what are you stopping for? I’m not done here! What do you mean – oh yes I am? You’ve got several other freshly killed beasts in the back – and certainly enough for everybody. All right, I’ll move it along… but Ah’ll be bock, you bastid cheap-ass.” OK, so my plate weighs 14 pounds. I’ll just drop it off at the table and get onto the covered dish line.

But wait, there’s another station with a chef dude making individual, made-to-order omelets. He’s got chopped up bacon, sausage, ham, steak, onions, peppers, potato, mushrooms, and seven exotic cheeses. “Yes…everything, toss it all in there, goddammit!” You end up getting something the size of a pro football. “Uh, don’t be stingy with the Asiago there, chief.”

Onto the hot covered dishes, but you stop by the roast beef slicing guy for another hit of charred red goodness. “Don’t gimme that look, Chef Boyardee, just pile it on.” OK, I’m moving it along. Now you lift the first tin and it’s the classic, Swedish Meatballs. I load them up on a second plate and pop them in my mouth as I walk down the line. Then it’s some kind of undefined, creamy seafood gunk. Nah, next… Egg Benedict. Damn yeah, it’s still breakfast somewhere. Ooooo, lil’ hotdogs in pasty shells – they don’t stand a chance. Beef chunks in gravy – sure. OK, lets see… oh yeah! Chicken Francaise! Lots of butter and lemon sauce. Don’t leave sauce for anyone else. Mine, mine… all mine. Next…OYESTERS ROCKERFELLER…HOLY SHITSKY! So I just take the whole chaffing dish back to the table.

My poor wife is always embarrassed by my barnyard eating habits when we’re in public. She always has on that “I don’t know this disgusting pig” look. While she waits for the line to die down, I’m on helping number four already. I know – I’m a repulsive and loathsome slug – but I write funny shit and that’s got some merit to it. And I always wear dark shirts, you know, hides the stains better. Like if we’re doing Italian, I wear dark red so the sauce blends right in. A smart eater is a good eater.

OK, I’m starting to get full – no doubt – but there’s still so much up there and I did pay $24.95. So, I go bother Chef Attitude for another round of turkey and ham. And, oh dear mother of God, I never hit the pasta station! Red sauce, alfredo, and vodka sauce! Just throw all three on the macaronis, bro, it’s all heading to the same place. mY colon already looks like the Lincoln Tunnel on a heavy day, so what the diff?

All right, all right… I admit I’ve had my fill. But Lord help us all… just look at that DESSERT TABLE! Even after a monster feast of gluttonous proportions, even my wife can’t resist a trip to sweet tooth heaven. Fresh baked pies, cookies and pastries, and seven layer cakes the size of bus tires. The boston crème puffs drenched in chocolate, the napoleons, and the canoles have me drooling like a dog in heat, and a stones throw from a diabetic comma – but I paid $24.95 and I’m getting my money’s worth!

Damn it. I can’t believe it. The friggin waiter never brought my Diet Coke.

Thursday Rocks If You Want it to,
Tommy Z.
JR Cigars Blog With the Zman