What's On Your Plate?®

My wife and I decided to do a little personal research to find out for ourselves about all the fuss regarding HomeTown Buffet^® or Old Country Buffet^® as it’s called in our fair city. We felt this was necessary before we were all hit with a product disparagement lawsuit.

First some background: We are fairly experienced diner-outers. I also have some inside knowledge. Sometime back, in between careers, I worked for the local County Health District. My primary job was to train food service workers but quite often I would assist the Inspectors when they visited restaurants for routine inspections. We used to see a lot of stuff, some good and some bad. After a while you get a feel for what is going on when you walk into a restaurant. This has its advantages for casual diners like us. It can also turn what would normally be considered a great dining experience, into a nightmare. In any case we felt eminently qualified for the task.

Before this field trip I had never been to our local OCB. Years ago when our son was small, my wife took him there for dinner while I was out of town. She refused to go back claiming the food was, “too bland, no taste.” I have tried repeatedly over the years to get her to reconsider so I could check it out. After all, there are only so many places to dine in Yukimoo. No dice. Finally, after much pleading she agreed to meet me there for lunch only in the interest of research for the SC.

Our visit did not begin well. Thinking the noon rush would be over, we arrived at 1:00 PM. We couldn’t find a place to park and we were confronted by people in old Cadillacs cruising around the lot looking for the disabled parking spaces. When we got inside we found a line of people extending out the door. They were not from our socio-economic milieu.

I immediately found myself chatting with an Arkie wearing bib overalls and Reeboks. He was saying something about the negative influence of cell phones on our culture but I’m not sure. I didn’t really understand his dialect. Fortunately the line was moving fairly fast. Up at the head I could see banks of buffets. I had never seen anything like it. It was crowded with people, easily the busiest restaurant in town. This place had more business than all the McDonalds in Yakima County. They all seemed to be moving about in a kind of human Brownian motion. I can only describe it as bumper cars without the violence or perhaps a Malibu Grand Prix without the cars and the noise. There were lots of bright lights and colorful food or what I took to be food. I couldn’t really tell.

I reached the head of the line, paid the nice cashier and was told to wait for a table. There were lots of managers. I could instantly tell who the managers were: name badges, regulation rumpled white shirts embossed with "Old Country Buffet," ties and size 48 bellies erupting from size 36 business apparel trousers. “Wow! The food must be good here,” I exclaimed to my wife. I saw one waving his arms and looking at me. He apparently was beckoning us to our table. At that instant a small elderly man with no teeth brushed past me towards the gesticulating 48/36. His wife who was behind us in line was yelling something. I said, “Hey! Excuse me!” in my sternest voice. The old man’s wife grabbed his arm and yanked him back into line. I lunged for our table across the room deftly avoiding the wheelchairs, walkers and crutches all askew in the aisleways. I wondered how we would ever get our food.

Uncertain what to do next we decided to jump into the fray. It took me two laps around the track to find the plates but once I did I was throwing elbows with the best of ‘em. I hit the salad buffet first. It seemed to be the least populated. Green salad, potato salad, seafood pasta salad and a butter-topped dinner roll, I piled them high. My winsome bride, always carb-conscious, went straight for the mac & cheese, cornbread stuffing, BBQ chicken, green beans, mashed potatoes and gravy.

¡Aye, qué sabroso! After all the ridicule about HTB/OCB, we were tasting delightful, even delectable, food. And my experienced eye told me this was a well managed establishment; the hot foods hot and the cold foods cold. All in vast quantities too! We were shocked and amazed!

I went for round two: breaded fish baked & fried, French fries and fried chicken. Same result: Outstanding! My wife was so enthralled that she returned to the melee for a second helping of cornbread stuffing and green beans. Nothing could dampen our enthusiasm. Not even the large woman at the next table shoveling spaghetti into her mouth in a very unsportsman-like way and eyeing a gap in the throng. Well she wasn’t going to get ahead of me! I went back for round three to find out what my wife was excited about: BBQ chicken, green beans, mashed potatoes and gravy. I didn’t find these items as satisfying and I was starting to slow down when the toothless man got up so I raced him to the breaded fish, baked and fried.

When I got back my wife needed to visit the dessert area. When she returned I said, “I’m just too stuffed for dessert. We’ll have to come back.” “Okay, that’ll give me a chance to sample the salad bar,” she replied, “I bet your Dad would like this place. Next time we’ll invite him.”

As we finished cleaning up our plates I began to feel an uncomfortable churning. I thought of all that breaded fish, baked and fried. “Honey," I said to my wife, “I think I ate too much.” I was thankful I had prepaid because by the time we made it outside the restaurant my stomach was in full projectile mode. I saw a nearby dumpster and let fly. My understanding bride patted me gently on the back, reassuring me that she was there with me. When I had finished she pulled me quickly away. To my horror I realized that my “dumpster” was the yawning trunk of a 1979 Coupe de Ville.

Speeding back to our Viewmont Palisades enclave my wife asked,
“We should go there again don’t you think?”
“I’ll call Dad,” I answered weakly.