Why forbid the fruit?
A fallen vacationer’s tale of standing up to the injustices of the buffet etiquette
This is a story about forbidden fruit. Not metaphorically. It’s a story about real fruit. More specifically, this is a story about a forbidden (and later confiscated) banana. A real banana, though not to be confused with true. It’s not a true story. It is a cautionary tale, determined in its conviction, raw in its emotion, commemorating all the half board buffet survivors.
Today at breakfast, overwhelmed with choices, freshness, variety and overflowing platters of lunch meat, she wanted to, but could not possibly keep all of it to herself. To satiate the urge of preserving a piece of experience, a photographer would take a photo. A romantic, a memory. An abundance enamored minimalist wannabe at a buffet? A banana. And a pancetta sandwich. And a croissant. And a cheese strudel.
Cautiously yet shamelessly, she collected the pieces to be preserved, albeit only till lunch, when they would be obliterated by her and her offspring. In what will just a day later prove as a futile attempt to flex the eternally flaccid willpower muscles, the husband will politely refuse to participate in a feast of the perishable buffet mementos.
Fine. More for us, she already thinks with a face practicing the cleverly concealed glee and a maniacal laugh of gluttony as she devours the spinach and cheese burek distributing the leftover crumbs to their brood.
Her daydreaming was interrupted by a shamelessly growing pile of an enviable collection of goodies in front of her. How would she carry out the loot without getting noticed by the staff? Does she even need to worry about it? Perhaps they don’t even care.
Perhaps they can’t possibly spot her 22 napkin camouflaged blobs of delectable breakfastness in the crowd adorned half board hotel cafeteria (not fooling anyone by calling itself a restaurant).
That’s it. She should just nonchalantly walk out the door, ear to ear smile strategically whitened weeks prior not merely to dazzle but charm. Deceive even, dare she say.
She knew full well there would be no shortage of survival moments on this vacation. Anyone who thinks otherwise about the half board resorts is a fool, a pretentious know-it-all. No such thing as a free lunch. Nice try calling it “included,” ha! What’s it included in? Selling your soul to the chain hotel gods of globalized economy reducing us all to measly hungry peons? Wait, what? Anyways…
A classic approach then. Camouflage. She sends her offspring, way too young to be wandering the confusing corridors of a corporate faceless pile of bedrooms posing as a hotel, to their room to procure the least attention seeking of their neon sponsored backpacks and bring it back. Fast. Before the protruding napkins start becoming suspicious to the decreasingly well-intentioned waitresses wondering if we were “all done?” Not even close, mamacita.
The kids bring back the yellow kid’s marathon backpack. Could have been worse. She starts nonchalantly placing one fluffy package inside as she intermittently smiles to her little ones convincingly delighted to the naked eye by their n-th review of the Moana’s deep allegorical assertions and even deeper analysis of Despacito’s lyrics. All the while turning around gracefully, as if by chance.
Once to be a tad overly fluttered by a dropped spoon. Bam! The croissant slides in the backpack. Once, to wave to a nonexistent acquaintance, presidential campaigner style, while using the other hand to, bam!, give the strudel a cozy welcome in its transitory neon yellow home.
She regrets this last diversion only moments later when a middle aged sun-scorched all-belly-no-limbs car salesman comes over to respond to the “friendly wave” that has promptly inspired him to ponder the role of chance in one’s life because, what a coincidence, he just wondered if anyone in a roomful of unsuspecting vacationers would even notice his balmy disposition, and would she — the lucky winner — share a midday nuttela crepe at the beach to tie them over till dinner (ah, the joys of half board).
Amateur, she thinks as she fakes a nervous laugh than tells him quietly yet firmly to piss off. He’s messing up her operation and she still has a pancetta sandwich to save from forced surrender to the managing dining room vultures. Crushed, the bellied salesman leaves, no pep in his stride. Collateral damage, she assures herself, not her fault.
After a quick glance to the bag’s insides, rolling her gaze up, her eyes lock with a sparkly set of another, apparently that of a more experienced breakfast buffet purveyor. This one-upper was just pimping off her gallon sized Tupperware with fresh cut cucumbers.
Wow, she thinks. In those few split second moments they exchange an impressively lengthy list of micro muscular facial expressions imperceptible to mere mortals but automatic to those in the same boat called half board by the sea.
First a got-ya-sucker, then oh-wait-you’re-doing-the-same-scheme, followed by a hypocritical shame-on-you, wiped off by a lightning speed of I-wont-tell-if-you-don’t, topped off with a quick fuck-em smirk, and finally by her rapid succession upward chin motion — her props to the Tupperware lady for some major balls, hat off for the skills and a bow of admiration only a true fan knows how to deliver with raw respect. After an obligatory mutual good-luck-comrade wink, off they go their separate ways forever bonded by the moment of survival camaraderie.
The Tupperware lady gets busted. What?! How? She needs to think fast. She places the forbidden fruit and the food filled yellow backpack on the little one number one’s back. Heck yeah she used her grade schooler as a mule. Wipe that gasp off your vocal chords. To take the camouflage further she places a mandala coloring book left in the backpack on the side away from the little one number one’s back, so the part of the backpack facing the world appears flat hence, foodless.
When the little one number one starts to fidget because all the sandwich bumps annoy her back, she squats to little one’s eye level and reminds her that this small sacrifice is the least she can do to help save her vacationing family from lunchtime starvation.
Finally… she takes out the banana and decides to hold it in bare sight in her hand facing the manager. A decoy. All smiles and dragging vacation feet, she nears the dining room exit. The manager expectedly stops her, apologizes for the intrusion and politely recites his marching orders about eating all one can inside not out.
She feigns surprise and utter confusion, apologizes to the manager profusely while still giving him a hefty dose of well-I’m-just-a-good-paying-customer-trying-to-have-a-stress-free-vacation-yet-you-dare-interfere-with-my-hard-earned-zen-but-ok-I-get-it-it’s-the-rules-not-you look of righteousness.
Meanwhile her little one number one is about to take the screaming yellow backpack to freedom at its new poolside home.
But not before little one number one asks her what the manager wanted. She says she’ll explain when they get to their room. The little one number one insists she heard him say not to take out the banana and if that’s the case perhaps we should hand over all the other stuff too. She switches to the code red mode, for the little one number one had not yet been acquainted with the concept of discreetness hence hadn’t spared decibels in voicing her moral dilemma.
She mumbles something and gently nudges the little one number one to the elevator trying to get the cargo out of the restricted zone before the little one attempts some stupid shit like… honesty. As they wave to the manager and she is about to declare sweet victory, the little one number two goes rogue.
Her oversight. How could she forget the wild card little one number two has been embodying so often lately? As the little one number two approaches the manager, she watches helplessly, speechless from the colossal fail sign flashing before her eyes.
“Thank you kind mister man for all the food we get to take to the pool with us every day.” The little one number two solemnly commences. “My mom takes a lot of buffet stuff after we’re done eating breakfast and makes us sandwiches. And we really enjoy the strudels and croissants for dessert. We are so lucky you are not one of the spineless corporate poltroons mom always threatens to curse us with becoming when we binge watch Disney channel and eat gummy worms… Plus, without this food we’d starve to death, mom says. So, thanks.”
The little one number two skips self indulgently back to her. Silence. Awkward stare down with the manager. For fuck’s sake, she thought. She grabs the backpack off the little one number one’s back and runs off to the pool. The little ones one and two watch in petrified perplexity. The manager quasi-incredulously yet calmly calls the security.
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