Oops! Excuse my accidental racism

At the Buffet

This past weekend I came down to visit the Aunties, and to guarantee they have a decent meal take them to Golden Corral for one of those gigantic all-you-can-eat feasts that ought to require signing a medical waiver at the front door.

Now let me just say this… time with the Aunties is precious. We laughed, visited, reminisced, and solved at least three world problems over yeast rolls and peach cobbler.

My heart left fuller than my plate.

Unfortunately, so did my waistband.

Why is it that at a buffet, people suddenly lose all sense of reason and dignity? Somewhere between plate number two and the buttered yeast rolls, your brain starts whispering foolishness like, “You know what would go good with this fried chicken? A brownie.”

You need to get your money’s worth!

That’s the lie we tell ourselves at buffets.

Nobody walks into a buffet saying, “I’ll just have a sensible portion.” No ma’am. A buffet turns ordinary church people into competitive eaters with glazed eyes and orthopedic shoes.

By the end of the meal, everybody’s miserable.

The Aunties are fanning themselves with napkins. I’m adjusting my protruding belt to the next whole.

But the truth is, the food wasn’t really the point.

It was the sitting together.
The laughing.
The stories.
The “remember when.”
The blessing of still having people at the table to love.

And honestly, that kind of fullness lasts a whole lot longer than the banana pudding.

However, buffets in general?

Maybe you can call me a buffet snob.

Maybe I avoid restaurants with the word buffet in the title because I lack self-control. Maybe I enjoy sitting down and having somebody serve me for a change. Or maybe I just enjoy life’s little surprises — even when I order something off a menu that sounded delicious until it hit my mouth and my taste buds immediately filed a formal complaint.

Now I know millions of people love buffets, especially after church on Sunday. Folks enjoy the benefits of multiple choices laid out before them at reasonable prices. There’s nothing wrong with loving a buffet… unless your seatbelt already sounds like it’s negotiating for mercy. Then stopping at the buffet starts resembling a drunk pulling into the local bar.

Just say no to the buffet.

Granny — my mother-in-law use to panic if we suggested a non buffet restaurant. Saying,
“At the buffet you can get what you want?”

To Granny, menus are stressful. Buffets are freedom.

What’s my true gripe with buffets?

First, let’s be honest — some buffets focus heavily on quantity while flavor quietly slips out the back door. A good one is harder to find than a church potluck without deviled eggs!

It’s being a Mama at the buffet trauma.

At home, at least the kitchen is a few steps away. At a buffet, feeding your family becomes an Olympic endurance event.

You maneuver through crowded aisles balancing plates like a circus performer. You wait behind the person who apparently has never seen mashed potatoes before.

One child follows you debating fried chicken versus fried fish like it’s a major life decision while the other suddenly needs ketchup, a straw, dessert, or emotional support.

Then just as you finally sit down with your own plate…

Somebody needs another trip.

My husband always thought he was helping, but kids instinctively holler for Momma. Fathers apparently suffer temporary hearing loss in restaurants.

Have you ever calculated how many trips it takes to survive a buffet with children?

Salad trips.
Entree trips.
Drink trips.
Dessert trips.

At minimum, I sat down and got back up nine times.

Honestly, I should’ve left myself a tip.

Of course, buffets and America’s waistline probably have a complicated relationship.

Do buffets contribute to obesity?
Or does obesity contribute to the popularity of buffets?

Either way, the road to tight pants is paved with multiple plate excursions.

Buffets tempt us into believing we need “a little of this and a little of that” until somehow we’ve consumed three meats, four vegetables, fried something, bread, banana pudding, peach cobbler, and soft serve ice cream — all because technically it was included in the price.

And desserts at buffets are especially dangerous.

At a regular restaurant, many of us have enough self-control to skip dessert altogether. But at a buffet? We suddenly become amateur chemists filling tiny bowls with cobbler, pudding, pie, and ice cream like we’re building a sugary science experiment.

Still, for all my teasing, buffets do serve a purpose.

Nobody has to cook.
Nobody has to clean.
Large families can gather together.
Church folks can continue fellowshipping long after Sunday service ends.

Maybe buffets simply remind us of old church potlucks and family reunions — tables overflowing with casseroles, laughter, second helpings, and people we love.

Maybe buffet eating really is comfort eating.

And honestly… comfort isn’t always such a bad thing.

At least buffets have sneeze guards.

At family reunions and church suppers

It’s just germ roulette.