Smorgasbord
I am a huge sucker for a buffet. Give me a salad bar, a sundae bar, a brunch buffet; I'm in heaven. It's sort of weird, given how unsanitary the public buffet is and how much of a germophobe I am, but the beauty of taking exactly what I want and creating my perfect meal/salad/dessert trumps the voice quietly nagging in the back of my head, "Do you know how many people's fingers have touched those tongs? And do you know where those fingers have BEEN?!"
So on Saturday night, the Smelmooo and I, following our first day in recent memory with no official plans, decided to go out to dinner, and the salad bar at Charlie Brown's sang its siren song and lured us in. I have to say, as mid-priced chain restaurants go, Charlie Brown's is pretty darned good, but I was absolutely shocked at how crowded it was, how many others were wooed by the salad bar (and possibly Shrimpfest, which I assume is some sort of all-you-can-eat buffet; it was in another part of the restaurant and I didn't bother looking).
I think part of why I love the make-your-own plate thing is because it brings me back to good memories of childhood. When I was young, before I started school or during the summer or on half-days, I went out to lunch with my mom and my Gammy (her mother) pretty regularly. We usually went to one of two places. The first was The Office, a standard pubby place in Morristown, which was right next door to Epstein's department store with an impressive candy department, where Gammy almost always bought me vanilla fudge or bags of those little pastel pink, green and yellow candies with non-pareils on top, or carob faux-Whoppers because I was allergic to chocolate as a kid.
The other place we visited was Septembers, which I liked because Gammy and I both had September birthdays, so it seemed like a special place (one that later doubled as a strip club at night and was wrapped up in all sorts of scandals, after Gammy died when I was nine). But the best part about Septembers was its sundae bar, where I was first introduced to frozen yogurt, and where the waitresses helpfully pointed out that the sundae would be better if you put some of the topping in first, then the fro-yo, then more topping, so you didn't get to the bottom and have only your sad vanilla fro-yo left. It was, of course, all-you-can-eat, and I'd get like 3 servings, and my mom would cock an eyebrow and Gammy would say, "Oh, Mildred. What's the harm?"
There were other good buffets -- in seventh grade, our academic bowl team (shut up) celebrated our victories at the Sizzler in town, and we thought it was super-fancy. And for probably a year, my parents took my sister Carolyn and me to a remarkably cheap restaurant at the Marriott twice a month after Saturday evening mass; the Marriott had both the all-you-can-eat salad bar and the make-your-own sundae bar, so I was in heaven. And when we were both home in NJ on break from college, Jenny and I would meet up for Sunday brunch at J.B. Winberie's in Summit, and pace ourselves diligently so we'd have room for at least five trips up to the buffet, which included a waffle bar with my beloved fake strawberries, and an omelet station.
Trying to recapture a bit of our history (and to find a kid-friendly place for her two-year-old), a few weeks ago, when Jenny was back from Africa, we met up at the J.B. Winberie's in Princeton for brunch. No omelets and only pre-made waffles, with yummy baked apples on the side, but no fake strawberries in sight. I was modestly disappointed, but still there was the beauty of choosing exactly what I wanted, and as much of it as I wanted.
And I think that's what it boils down to: the memories of buffets past are nice, but it's really about being an impossibly picky eater and a bit of a control freak to boot.
So on Saturday night, the Smelmooo and I, following our first day in recent memory with no official plans, decided to go out to dinner, and the salad bar at Charlie Brown's sang its siren song and lured us in. I have to say, as mid-priced chain restaurants go, Charlie Brown's is pretty darned good, but I was absolutely shocked at how crowded it was, how many others were wooed by the salad bar (and possibly Shrimpfest, which I assume is some sort of all-you-can-eat buffet; it was in another part of the restaurant and I didn't bother looking).
I think part of why I love the make-your-own plate thing is because it brings me back to good memories of childhood. When I was young, before I started school or during the summer or on half-days, I went out to lunch with my mom and my Gammy (her mother) pretty regularly. We usually went to one of two places. The first was The Office, a standard pubby place in Morristown, which was right next door to Epstein's department store with an impressive candy department, where Gammy almost always bought me vanilla fudge or bags of those little pastel pink, green and yellow candies with non-pareils on top, or carob faux-Whoppers because I was allergic to chocolate as a kid.
The other place we visited was Septembers, which I liked because Gammy and I both had September birthdays, so it seemed like a special place (one that later doubled as a strip club at night and was wrapped up in all sorts of scandals, after Gammy died when I was nine). But the best part about Septembers was its sundae bar, where I was first introduced to frozen yogurt, and where the waitresses helpfully pointed out that the sundae would be better if you put some of the topping in first, then the fro-yo, then more topping, so you didn't get to the bottom and have only your sad vanilla fro-yo left. It was, of course, all-you-can-eat, and I'd get like 3 servings, and my mom would cock an eyebrow and Gammy would say, "Oh, Mildred. What's the harm?"
There were other good buffets -- in seventh grade, our academic bowl team (shut up) celebrated our victories at the Sizzler in town, and we thought it was super-fancy. And for probably a year, my parents took my sister Carolyn and me to a remarkably cheap restaurant at the Marriott twice a month after Saturday evening mass; the Marriott had both the all-you-can-eat salad bar and the make-your-own sundae bar, so I was in heaven. And when we were both home in NJ on break from college, Jenny and I would meet up for Sunday brunch at J.B. Winberie's in Summit, and pace ourselves diligently so we'd have room for at least five trips up to the buffet, which included a waffle bar with my beloved fake strawberries, and an omelet station.
Trying to recapture a bit of our history (and to find a kid-friendly place for her two-year-old), a few weeks ago, when Jenny was back from Africa, we met up at the J.B. Winberie's in Princeton for brunch. No omelets and only pre-made waffles, with yummy baked apples on the side, but no fake strawberries in sight. I was modestly disappointed, but still there was the beauty of choosing exactly what I wanted, and as much of it as I wanted.
And I think that's what it boils down to: the memories of buffets past are nice, but it's really about being an impossibly picky eater and a bit of a control freak to boot.
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