The Year of the Pig
Things I learned at the Chinese buffet today — about food, humanity, and my own limits.
I pulled this memory from the archives, back when I willingly entered a place called The Bamboo Palace — a name that suggests serenity, balance, and perhaps a tasteful koi pond. What I found instead was controlled chaos, steam-table psychology, and a living anthropology exhibit disguised as lunch.
Consider this a field report.
1. “All you can eat” is a social experiment
There is nothing quite like the phrase all you can eat to summon a cross-section of humanity that feels… unburdened by self-awareness.
Comfort is understandable. Elastic waistbands are logical. But some patrons treat the buffet like a witness protection program. Shirts appear to have survived previous meals. Pants hang with a confidence that suggests gravity has lost the argument. Hygiene is optional. Dignity is negotiable.
Yes, I know we’ll never meet again — but the image of exposed lower back hovering near Kung Pao Chicken is now part of my permanent memory archive.
2. Dining solo is suspicious behavior
“Just one?” the hostess asks, eyes narrowing as if I’ve admitted to a minor felony.
A buffet thrives on volume. Families. Groups. Herds. A lone diner disrupts the algorithm. After consulting charts, maps, and perhaps ancient runes, she escorts me to a distant corner — a table untouched since the Clinton administration. Dust is cleared. Soy sauce of questionable viscosity is discarded. I later discover what may have been Jimmy Hoffa beneath the table, but he assures me everything is fine.
3. The plates are aggressively small
The tiny plates are no accident. They are a psychological deterrent. A speed bump. A suggestion that maybe you don’t need that sixth helping.
Unfortunately, they also ensure repeated trips — cardio disguised as dining — as I attempt to accumulate enough protein to survive payment. A plate smaller than a Barbie camper hubcap should be illegal in a protein-forward environment.
4. The plates do not deter the professionals
Some guests approach the buffet with military efficiency. They stack plates like defensive walls. Food accumulates faster than it can be consumed. Tables vanish beneath mountains of pork, noodles, and fried ambition.
Most of this food will not be eaten. It will die bravely in the trash. Meanwhile, the rest of us wait patiently while someone uses a serving spoon like a forklift.
This is how civilizations fall.
5. Egg Foo Yung has my heart
On this particular day, Egg Foo Yung was perfect. Someone in that kitchen understands it deeply — the balance, the sauce, the reckless generosity of fat content.
I would defend it. I would queue aggressively for it. I might jog.
Egg Foo Yung doesn’t ask questions. It just loves you back.
6. Buffet navigation mirrors traffic behavior
Some people stop dead in the middle of the line, frozen by possibility. Others attempt to enter from the wrong direction, glaring as if constitutional rights are being violated.
There is an unspoken order here. Observe the flow. Join it. Do not block access to Black Pepper Shrimp. This is not optional.
7. Complaints will always find broccoli
At a buffet offering hundreds of options, someone will still summon management. This time, the offense was broccoli — present, visible, unmistakable.
The logic escapes me. Broccoli is not subtle. It announces itself. Yet somehow it became an affront requiring escalation.
The manager responds with restraint. The server absorbs abuse. Ice cubes become the next battleground.
Humanity remains undefeated.
8. The bathroom tells another story
The dining room is pristine. The bathroom is… not.
Graffiti blooms above urinals. Tags persist for years. The contrast is fascinating. It’s as if another ecosystem exists behind that door — one with different rules, alliances, and perhaps a dress code.
You exit quickly. You wash your hands thoroughly. You return to sushi that has been waiting too long.
9. Soft-serve ice cream summons children
The machine hums quietly, emitting chemical perfume detectable by children instantly. Chaos ensues.
Parents continue eating. Children battle. Hello Kitty backpacks become improvised weapons. The ice cream flows.
Balance is restored.
10. The fortune cookie will find you
I do not want the cookie. It is dry. It offers optimism that feels mildly insulting.
“You will find true friends next year.” As opposed to now?
Still, the cookie persists. It follows me to the door. Eventually, it joins dozens of its predecessors in my glove compartment — a small library of hollow encouragement.
Final Thoughts
The buffet is not about cuisine. It’s about human behavior under abundance. About restraint evaporating. About joy, excess, and questionable decisions.
Would I return?
Absolutely.
For the Egg Foo Yung, if nothing else.
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