I'm not sure how to classify this dinner - it was a buffet in the sense that food was set out in a central location, and we were expected to fill our own plates, but that is pretty much where the similarities stopped. We waited 10 minutes for clean plates. Staff were huddled around the edges of the room with their phasers on "invisibility" (Note to staff: We could still see you). The combination of foods was nonsensical, as if someone's crazy aunt cleaned out her fridge. There were mashed potatoes, but with that weird crust buffet spuds get when they've sat out. There was no gravy, but there were random, bizarre vegetables that everyone pointedly avoided. The salad was brown and limp; toppings included corn and other equally off-the-wall things. You could see light through the prime rib, it was sliced so thin. The chef placed one sheer, sad slice on my plate. I smiled and waited. He smiled back, tense, his mouth twitching. It was clear they hadn't covered this in buffet school. I continued to smile, my cheeks becoming as hard and sore as a marathon runner's legs. Finally, hands shaking from frustration, he placed another wafer-thin slice on my plate.
They advertised shrimp but it was hidden at a small table, probably so that once you'd gorged yourself on the creepy potatoes and wilted lettuce, you wouldn't bother. I'm too clever for such ploys and decided to extract my meal by eating only shrimp. I took the remaining six and found a table within view of the pot, the better to pile my plate high when it was refilled. But other diners had the same idea: As soon as a staff member left his post at the wall and filled the pot, everyone pounced and emptied it.
Amused, I watched six frat-boy types confused by the odd selection of food. It took them only a minute to reach the end of the line--the meat slicing station--with hopes pinned on prime rib. The first arriver saw that Mr. Meatslicer wasn't at his station, so he waited patiently for his return. Soon his hungry companions were also gathered around the meat, but still no Mr. Slicer. I silently rooted for them, wanting one to yell, "What the hell kind of buffet is this?" but they were too polite--and probably weak from hunger. Finally one began slicing his own juicy slab, the kind you expect when you order something like, well, prime rib. That triggered Mr. Meatslicer to come flying out of the kitchen, pants afire, shouting, flailing, panic in his eyes at the thought of these hungry youth helping themselves to meat. He grabbed the knife and said, "Thank you, I get it." The light of hope that had briefly flickered was doused.
By then, we knew: this place sucked. The food was bad, the service worse, and heaven forbid someone should want to leave satisfied. Boo. Avoid. Avoid. Avoid.