Buffet bullies and breakfast bandits

GIVE someone a buffet to dish up as they like, and the chaff is cut from the wheat. The Spectator recently published an article about this with the headline: “Are you a hotel buffet bandit?"

I remember as far back as the 1970s the Holiday Inns where every room had a small Sony TV on a wooden plinth. The rooms and corridors were always musty and the swimming pools had too much chlorine and the children were noisy.

But it is the buffet that makes me think back with horror. Believe me, I don't turn my nose up at food, I'm too big-bellied for that. But if you arrive around 09:00 for breakfast, which is quite a civilised time, the food has been simmering for hours. The greasy smell of old, reheated hotel breakfasts is a special kind of torture.

Sky-blue scrambled eggs

The scrambled eggs have already turned blue when you get there with your plate, which is usually too hot and burns your fingertips. Sky blue like in Greece.

The pork sausages are short, shiny, burnt and ugly. They look like a primaeval man's swollen, petrified fingers unearthed by archaeologists.

If you ask for an omelette, you are first glared at, it is then bitterly turned over, hit a few times with something that looks like a ladle and eventually thrown onto your plate with great fanfare.

That is if you can get to the buffet because there is always a queue. I always end up behind an annoyed teenager loading a plate bigger than the great pyramid of Giza. Then they nogal go back for a second and third.

They are probably stuffing themselves properly for the long road through the Namib Desert all the way to Okahandja. Once one whispered to his mother in front of me that she should not stand near him, he was ashamed of her. Okay, she wore a big white catsuit with alarming silver stilettos and a gold belt.

It reminds me of my friend Penny who, as a teenager, forbade her mother from walking on the same side of the sidewalk. Mum had to walk on the pavement across the road.

There was also a Louise at school with me. She gave her father strict instructions to drop her off around the corner. He drove a DKW (Dampfkraftwagen). She was embarrassed by his “ugly" car and also by him, in his Pep Stores safari suit.

Castanets with the coffee

Back to the buffet. The coffee is bitter, undrinkable and burnt, the milk so hot that you peel your lips until you only see teeth. Where did that craze come from? Hot milk with coffee? It sounds too much like a Koekenaap affair, even though the French call it café au lait, which could also be a Spanish dance. Bring the castanets.

And then please tell me who, on an empty stomach, would want to eat potatoes that have been sautéed until they are completely brown and all taste is ruined? No way ...

Spinach is also a mystery, as are pancakes with cream for breakfast. The various smelly cold meats such as dry ham and curled salami can also stay put right there. The stuff is not made to be spread under bright lights for hours. This is not an operating table.

I have also seen a woman quickly grab a bread roll, with a few slices of ham and cheese on it, wrap it in a napkin and hide it in her handbag. Why she tried to conceal it, I don't know, it seemed to be quite de rigueur: buffet gangs stocking up on food to feast on later.

The Spectator article goes on: “Indisputably, hotels do have to contend with theft and we're not talking about a bar of soap. A pen, notepad, tea bags, a little bottle of shampoo? Help yourself.

“Even a pair of those throwaway slippers. Knock yourself out. But towels, bathrobes and light bulbs? It is kleptomania run riot.”

There you have it. According to the article, when you get to a buffet again, you should ask: “Good morning, Walter. Is that a banana and a muffin secreted in your slacks, or are you just pleased to see me?”

♦ VWB ♦

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