Nearing the end of our honeymoon, the fourth installment of The Tequila Diary found me waxing philosophical about breakfast....
A Note on Buffets
In theory, a buffet is an awesome thing: a choose-what-will, all-you-can-eat meal.
In practice though, there is always something inherently gross about buffet. I'll never quite be free of feeling a bit like cattle every time I saunter up to the trough, grab a plate and vie for a place in the queue behind other slavering, jostling, hungry buffet-goers.
Even in a five-star resort, there's just something off-putting about an entire stainless steel insert full of nothing but bacon. That's just...too much bacon in one place.
And I feel like even in the classiest and most upscale of beach-side hotels there's always going to some asshole who thinks it's okay to go to breakfast in his bathing suit.
Do I really want to line up behind some dickhead who just peed in the pool so that we can both fight over a mound of huevos rancheros with our slotted spoons?
Two words: Room Service.
*unless they have those delectable little cinnamon rolls again. I'll eat a plateful of those fuckers.