When I was growing up and we were away as a family my father would not let us eat if we were going to a buffet. Seriously. “No one eats – we are going to a buffet” he would bellow. Consequently, like Pavlov’s dog, when I go to a buffet I hear his voice and can hardly bear to eat modestly. It is like duty, scottish duty, to stuff your face, try everything and go back for seconds.
Once when I was eight I ate eight chocolate eclairs at a buffet. If 666 is the sign of the devil. 8ate8 is the sign of a little piggy. My father cheered and I barfed.
There is a weird little thing I find myself on right now and it makes me nervous. It is a world size buffet that moves through the water. There is food round the clock and it is made to look so pretty and inviting. There is no where to go to get hungry because the buffet is everywhere. It follows you everywhere with promises of midnight burgers and sundaes, afternoon margaritas and custom omlettes at daybreak. It tugs on your sleeve, it chastises you, it sends good smells your way , presenting bouquets of food like it is courting you.
It is called a cruise ship.