Waiter! There's A Llama In My Soup!

It isn't often that I disagree with James Lileks' sentiments, but I part company with him on the subject of breakfast buffets:

I went down to the Holiday Inn restaurant to meet Dad and Doris. We were handed menus, a superfluity the waitresses cheerfully offer up with full knowledge you’ll have the buffet. Why wouldn’t you? There are few words in the English language that have the plain poetic appeal of Breakfast Buffet; you imagine the spoils of Croesus, from eggs to pancakes to pans of bangers, rashers unnumbered of bacon, rolls and fruit, and a man in a ceremonial hat at the end of the line carving off hanks of hog. And you can go back.

Personally, I loathe buffets, breakfast or otherwise. To me, they say nothing so much as, "Food's over there. You want it? Go get it yourself." Sure, the spread can be impressive and you can load up a second time (not that you really need to), but this doesn't take away from my conviction that they exist primarily so that the staff doesn't have to bother so much with individual service, that they're really for the restaurant's convenience, not mine.

I've had to do an awful lot of travelling for work this year, so I've had plenty of opportunities to face hotel breakfasts. And more than once I've seen a look of shock flit across a waitress's face when I've said no, I want to look at the menu, please. Once I sit down in a restaurant, I want to remain sitting. Especially first thing in the morning when I've already used up practically all of my auxiliary power just staggering into the place to begin with.