Drive across the West along
the Interstate and you’ll get the impression that sleeping, eating
and filling up the gas tank are the activities we hold dear to our
hearts. Of these three, however, the greatest seems to be eating.
I’d stayed overnight at a motel no driver could see, much
less imagine, just off the interstate. It probably had been built
in the 1920s, remodeled in the 1950s, and then pretty much left as
a landmark to ineptitude for the last 50 years. No HBO, no ice
machine, no continental breakfast, no security device unless a
doormat that wouldn’t lie flat had been intended to trip intruders
as they skulked past my door. My room had no fewer than three
double beds. A young clerk gave me the single rate and expressed
relief that ‘d taken the last room, for then he could flip the
switch and put power to the word “No” on the neon “Vacancy” sign
above the door; we could all rest assured: The motel was full.
The next morning, I drove back toward the Interstate for
breakfast. The Golden Trough sported a towering sign visible at
least a half mile away. I pulled into the parking lot, locked up,
then patiently stood beside the plaque just inside the door that
announced: “Please Wait to be Seated.”
“Table for one?”
the hostess inquired.
“Yes, please.”
“Did you
get a ticket?” she asked.
I tried a joke. “No, I observed
the parking lot speed limit when I pulled in.”
She seemed
irritated by yet another guy who thinks he’s funny, but all she
said was, “I mean, for the breakfast buffet. If you just want to
order, you’ll have to wait a minute.”
Three other
breakfast parties had crowded in behind me and she glanced toward
them with a rekindled graciousness. “Tickets?” The party directly
behind me waved their stubs in the air, as if they were bidding on
the prize steer at a livestock auction.
Before the words
“If you’ll come this way” could be uttered, the entire clutch of
tourists pushed past me, making a beeline toward the seating area.
I had unknowingly stepped into one of the many (but often
not talked about) Buffet Triangles. Unlike the better-known Bermuda
Triangle, people crossing into this vortex don’t disappear, they
just get substantially larger. It’s the hundreds of pounds of meat,
potatoes, eggs and pastries that simply vanish. Just like that. Had
I chosen to spend the night at a major motel along the interstate,
I’d probably have possessed my own ticket, a complimentary
breakfast coupon packaged with each room’s rental. Instead, I ended
up at the Goldilocks Inn, where I got three beds, none of them just
right.
The hostess returned like a sheepdog, prepared to
herd another ticketed gaggle of grazers into the dining room. She
glanced at me, remembering that I’d asked for something unusual.
She gave me one of those looks reserved for wolves, a sideways kind
of facial snarl that amounted to a warning not to mess with her
lambs.
“I’ll have to clean a table. It will be a few
minutes.” Then she looked over my shoulder. “Tickets?” Another
group of hungry motorists accelerated past me toward the dining
area.
All three groups waiting behind me had been seated
before I got ushered to a table. I ordered a cheese omelet, then
sat back to observe the buffet crowd.
There’s a kind of
excitement in the air when food is present, an aroma that triggers
memories and abducts the rational mind. A buffet is designed to
stimulate the appetite, which is why so many plates carried past my
table were heaped like little mountains. A buffet seems to taunt
us: I dare you to eat more than you paid for.
Now that
the federal government has declared obesity a disease, we probably
need to rethink the buffet mentality. The Pillsbury Dough Boy has
been America’s role model long enough. I mean, even bartenders can
be held responsible for serving drinks to obviously intoxicated
patrons. By my count over half the customers shuffling past me
appeared pudgy, paunchy, potbellied or just plain wide. There
should have been a designated eater standing by in the lobby.
I’m lucky I wasn’t in a hurry, because during the long
wait for my omelet, I almost caved in and switched to the tempting
buffet. A waistline is a terrible thing to watch.
David Feela is a contributor to Writers on the Range, a
service of High Country News (hcn.org). He
writes in Cortez, Colorado.
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