Soul Searching at the International Buffet
A version of this article was originally published on Substack.
Much like the cockroach, the water bear, and the Waffle House, the International Buffet is one of those magical, living organisms that will survive the apocalypse.
If you plucked an international buffet from its strip mall foundation and plopped it in Antarctica, it’d serve penguins until global warming thawed the tundra. Not only would it survive the volcanic heat of Mt. Doom, but it would make satisfied customers of the Ringwraiths of Mordor, and if ever the bomb falls, you can rest assured that the suburban all-you-can-eats will re-open their doors on a bright nuclear winter’s morning.
There are millions of restaurants superior to the international buffet, and plenty of inferior ones with better ambiance, but what sets apart the dive buffet from the rest of creation is its democracy.
There is no class or caste in the line for endless orange chicken.
I learned this firsthand during college, at the Local Hibachi Buffet of Pinellas Park. We students brushed shoulders with all manner of lunch breaking workers. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find the Mayor of Largo cleaning sweet-and-sour sauce from his tie in the booth next to us, or offseason Tampa Bay Buccaneers practicing their long snaps with dumplings.
My barber once confided in me, mid-trim, that his perfect day consisted of smoking himself silly and walking to the Local Hibachi. He probably spent more on weed than he did on food those afternoons; at $8 a person, the lunch special created its own ecosystem within St. Petersburg, one that included even us college students. We dispatched from my friend’s minivan like SWAT team members, crisp Alexander Hamiltons clutched in our fists as exact change.
The lunch special was an experience worth missing class, at a price worth missing our college cafeteria. The amenities were endless: sweet chili shrimp, mint chocolate ice cream, and a fish tank! Fried rice, several construction workers smoking cigarettes, and — look! — another fish tank!
It was with those nostalgic visions of grandeur that I stumbled upon the International Buffet of Los Angeles this past weekend, dumbfounded and hopeful.
Maddee and I had been running errands in East L.A., buying external hard drives and disco balls, when the bright, stuttering neon sign beckoned me.
International Buffet, it read, before flickering into International Buf.
The red letters danced on and off, as though chanting — Buf, fet… Buf, fet… The sign seemed just as excited to see me as I was to see it, compelling me inside.
Buff… fet…
The sensation of destination was one that I hadn’t felt since parting with the Local Hibachi. I felt like Harry Potter, sensing Voldemort was nearby. Only, in my case, Voldemort was endless rangoons, yet somehow just as deadly.
“They have one dollar sign on Google,” Maddee said, staring at her phone in the dark parking lot. “And they offer a variety of ‘American, Italian, Chinese, and Japanese options.’”
“Those are, like, four of my favorite options,” I said. “We’re going.”
Buf… fet…
Maddee had already eaten dinner, meanwhile I hadn’t eaten since my last meal, and craved the full experience.
“Buffet for one please,” I said to the skeptical cashier, and booked our table for the low price of a Los Angeles Clippers ticket.
It was only after four back-to-back plates of quad-national foods that I did the math on my All Star dinner. I sampled a grand total of 14 dishes. Fourteen.
Using a variety of menus from competing restaurants in Los Angeles, I came to the following conclusion:
I ate almost $200 worth of food for less than $20.
I will concede that I (obviously) didn’t eat the volume of 14 entrees. But, since non-buffets don’t offer appetizer-equivalents of the foods that I tried, I feel justified in saying that I wouldn’t spent $200 to taste as much as I did.
If you find a 14-dish appetizer sampler for less than $200, point me in its direction. (No, seriously. Please do.) Until then, I’m celebrating my frugality.
Unlike the hypothetical bill that I would’ve paid elsewhere, it’s impossible to quantify the superior vibe of the International Buffet. It’s like trying to describe the feeling of walking into the Vatican. Or a home Eagles game.
You walk in, and an impermeable significance strikes you…
You feel at home. This place, despite its many faults, has so much to offer.
On the streets outside, there is cold, poverty, hunger, and violence… corrupt politicians, 401(k)s, and Dallas Cowboys fans.
But not here.
Here, there is only food, dripping with MSG, and bottled beer to boot.
Thank you for reading Elephant Graveyard. Why not share it with the staff of your local buffet?
The drinks are cold-ish, the food is warm-ish, and the room is… well… room temperature.
“Whatever you think is up there,” I told Maddee, upon returning from the trenches with Plate #2, “Imagine ten times that. It just keeps going.”
It doesn’t matter if you’re alone at the International Buffet — like the woman to our left, who maneuvered her lo mein with the calm demeanor of a brain surgeon, or the man eating a revolutionary combo of crab legs and orange slices while betting on horse races on his phone.
You have a seat here.
Alternatively, like the tired mom to our right, you might bring the whole family — all eight kids’ worth, rest assured that they can go back for seconds eight times, and your pantry back home will remain safe.
They have seats here, all eight of them.
Bring a date, bring your parents. Bring your date’s parents.
Bring the after-school soccer team, and the rival theater kids.
Bring the board of the company of which you’re committing a hostile takeover.
There’s no conflict so conflicting that it cannot be solved over a coconut shrimp.
Buf… fet…
My Sunday scaries melted away at Table #4 — the corner of a triangle formed alongside the indoor water fountain and the men’s room. Maddee took photos of me and sent them to our friends, who gladly chimed in to congratulate me on my accomplishments — four plates! — while I streamed the fourth quarter of the Sixers game on my phone.
Is it any coincidence that Joel Embiid scored a new career high while I cheered him on at the International Buffet?
“Do you feel God in this buffet tonight?” Maddee asked.
Bits of chicken wing fell from my beard.
“I want to be buried under that fountain,” I said, and before I knew where my limbs were taking me, I was back in line for more.
International Buffet, Ranked
Best Dish: Orange chicken
Worst Dish: “Tasty” shrimp
Biggest Surprise (Pleasant): Braised pork
Biggest Surprise (Letdown): Chicken wings
Biggest Surprise (Existence): Crawfish
Improvement Point: No ice cream
Notes for Next Time: I still need to try the pepperoni pizza, baked flounder, and whole ham
What I’ll Remember: Spinach was so fresh, they could’ve grown it in the back
Shouts Out To…
- My growing number of readers over on Substack.
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