Old Country Buffet

[Martin Hash]

I think going out to eat on Mother's Day is every family's tradition.

"You know where we want to go Dad," announced Heather.

"I'm not eating at anyplace named 'Chuck-o-Rama'," I insisted.

"It's called 'Old Country Buffet' now," Heather explained.

"Gwynne, it's your Mother's Day?" I grasped for support from my wife.

"I don't care," she capitulated to the kids' demands.

The line was literally out the door. It gave me ample time to fully contemplate the many Norman Rockwell prints adorning the hallway queue. The whole place echoed clanking dishes. The large "Senior Discount" sign at the cash register blocked most of the view out of the window. The guy standing next to us in line was wearing moccasins, had a Leatherman's knife hanging from his sweat pants, and called his wife "Mamma". I knew his name was Toby because he was wearing a large plastic "Hello, my name is..." photo ID hooked to his suspenders.

We were finally ushered to a long, multiple-seating table. Our tablemates were Mabel, her husband, J.R., and their kids. Little Ollie liked his pork-n-beans swirled into his cottage cheese, with a little orange juice added for color. Mabel asked for a doggie bag for Uncle Bert, who was in the nursing home. J.R. felt a compulsion to pick his nose.

I remained at the table while my family rapidly dispersed to reconnoiter the eating. As Heath scurried off, I could hear him saying, "I'm just here for the food!" There were endless birthday announcements over the loudspeaker asking patrons to applaud. I surveyed the occupants of the tables around us. A platinum-haired, elderly lady forgot where she was sitting. In fact, she'd forgotten who she was with and what her name was. There were four highchairs at the table next to us.

Cautiously, I walked through the cramped, crowded food islands holding my plate. At the beverage table, the young boy in front of me turned to comment, "I like to mix my white milk with chocolate milk."

Gwynne had told me the melon was good but by the time I found the salad bar there was none left, but there was a girl there sneezing incessantly. "Don't worry," her mother reassured me. "It's only allergies."

Two boys handled every single cookie, dozens of them, to pick the best one. Then my son Haven proceeded to touch every cookie again, to see if the kids had left any good ones. I had to be careful what I choose to eat because there were no forks. I waited for a guy to deliver clean, steaming forks once, but a crowd pushed themselves in front of me and took them all first.

As it turned out, I only got a hard roll and a cookie... But I didn't eat the cookie.