All-You-Can-Eat Breakfast Bar: Mockable
The Breakfast Bar was the trend of the day when I was a kid. My parents and everybody else’s parents seemed to fall under its seductive spell in unison.
I remember huge steel vats heaping with sausage patties and eggs, and being drunk on the power of knowing we could eat until we blacked out if we wanted. It made you proud to be an American — at least going in.
The memories are vivid: a man in silhouette by the window folding a foot long strip of bacon into his elongated mouth; an expressionless woman gnawing on what appeared to be a meat apple; people still chewing from their previous platefuls elbowing their way into position at the bar for another throw, children and the handicapped be damned; seniors, looking to be in a full state of pre-digestive distress, sitting in booths playing gristle hockey in their church clothes while their children curse the unsatisfactory biscuit allocation.
And always, eventually and dramatically, a hush would fall over the place, followed by a wave of tense electricity, as the swinging doors to the kitchen banged open and a toothless god appeared bearing a steaming bucket of fresh hash browns. It was a magical moment indeed — pure gluttony in motion.
Of course, I also remember feeling at least mildly disappointed with the overall experience as we rode home afterwards. The scrambled eggs, the centerpiece of the meal, always seemed powdery and as cold as Silly Putty. And even though it was all-you-can-eat, I usually felt compelled to throw in the towel before I got truly full, probably because I was tired of fighting for my food like a dog.
One of my general rules of thumb, even at a young age, was that a person should avoid suffering physical trauma during mealtime, if at all possible.
I had recurring nightmares during this period as well: I’d be in the restaurant alone, and as I approached the wide-open well-stocked bar, clutching my warm plate in eager anticipation, a frightening man would suddenly step out from behind a tower of cutlets laughing dementedly through a beard of heavy gravy.
He’d be wearing a sash of sausage links and gesticulating wildly with syrup decanters where his hands should be. I’d try to scream but I’d suddenly find myself with one of those big meat apple plugged in my mouth. Inexplicably, I’d usually wake up afterwards with a throbbing erection, convinced that I could smell pancakes in my room.
It was absolutely horrifying.
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regarding the accompanying picture – my parents still have those plates!
Hitting the “all you can eat” was a standard Saturday morning in 1980 St. Albans, WV. Usually 3 or 4 of us would meet at the water tower around 6AM (we wern’t dicking around, this was tradition) and see just how many bong hits we could do before the fog started to burn off at about 8AM. Then we would then descend on the little resturant, “Kin Folks”, “Po Folks”…it had several names over it’s short life. We’d float in and ravage the breakfast bar until we no longer had a buzz then, head out to the river to drink beer all day…
Life was good then…
Nice one, Jay Gay.
Who are you mocking, yourself? Did Nostrils pony up $50?
Cordially,
Alan P. Langley
“wake up afterwards with a throbbing erection” – well so long as there was no country gravy on the duvet I’d say no harm no foul.
I hate those “throbbing erection” dreams. It’s never the good kind, always painful and makes it hard to do your morning pee break. Hard, heh…
“Inexplicably, I’d usually wake up afterwards with a throbbing erection, convinced that I could smell pancakes in my room”
Dude – serious overshare!
The true allure of these buffets is the unlimited bacon. Can anyone ever have enough bacon? Actually they are usually pretty disappointing. when you are having the buffet you wonder if you ordered from the menu would the food be of better quality?
my parents have/had those plates too.
Unsatisfactory biscuit allocation – very poignant imagery.