I am enamoured with the North American concept of the buffet. The fact that, in theory at least, I can have 3 pounds of shrimp with a side of soft serve ice-cream, or a bowl of gravy with crackers as my entire meal is almost beyond comprehension. It’s like dining when I was in University…A ridiculous array of un-related options, but with way less of those options being ramen noodles. The reality of the buffet however is also the fodder for my worst nightmares.
The multi-pronged plan of attack I require to actually get myself to a buffet is in-fact more complicated than planning a large scale political coup. Logistics up the wa-zu. The first step is deciding to actually GO to a buffet. Keep in mind, I am never the one who choses to leave the house, let alone for a buffet. I am always the one who is asked to go to a buffet. It’ll be fun, they say. You love buffets, they say. It’s an effective way to transmit tuberculosis, they say.
Wait. What?
After I reluctantly agree to the buffet – usually done as a kind gesture to either the very old or the very young – it’s the mental prep involved in attending a buffet. I’m not sure I’ve mentioned that I am the proud owner and operator of numerous mental conditions/ neuroses, including but not limited to: Mild OCD, raging social anxiety, mild to moderate depression, occasional hot-dog fingers, persistent spider phobia and the crippling self induced pressure that I should be eating more leafy greens and giving Country music another chance. Its the OCD and anxiety that drive my buffet contention. Hot-dog fingers is more of a smartphone phenomenon.
The preparation to get me out of the house is one thing…the buffet requires a liberal preparatory dosage of both hand sanitizer and Lorazepam. What truly scares me about the buffet, besides the presence of other humans, is the fact that these humans have potentially touched the items I am about to ingest. If I am lucky enough to be waiting outside the buffet place in question prior it opening and am the first one at each station, the buffet is my nirvana. I can and WILL eat 3 pounds of shrimp, unencumbered by the presence of the potentially dirty interlopers. If I am there anytime after the opening bell has rung however, I’m crushing up my medication and sprinkling it on my shrimp ice cream sundae.
My most therapy-inducing moment at the buffet is when I find myself behind a child in the feeding line. Kids don’t get it. Their well meaning parents tell them “don’t touch anything! Hands to yourself!” and they listen. However, even though they may insist when questioned, these children are not virologists and do not understand the gravity of airborne nastiness. I’m no viroligist myself, but the height of the buffet sneeze guard is not proproitional to the height of the average child sized, un-detonated germ bomb. Their little heads are at the perfect orientation for any number of things to come flying out of their mouths directly into the infinite selection of deliciousness. Medically I believe it is called Buffet Cough. A perfectly innocent looking child, pigtails skimming the rubbery tops of the rice pudding cups with every careless head spin. She turns towards a fresh insert of chicken wings – my favourite – and with the calm of a serial killer sends one deliberate cough out directly on top of them, hands by her sides the entire time, exactly as her parents had instructed…
Shit.
The look on my face at that slow motion moment is best described as “horrified” or “howler monkey”. I’m sure I can see the microbes for Cholera (or at the very least, swimmers itch) flying onto my sweet, sweet chicken wings. Defeated, I leave the line up and head towards the self serve sundae bar to run the spigot for a good 30 seconds before getting a good, clean, mid stream sample of edible oil product. Thanks, infinite choices. I’m so glad we had this time together.
