There was a time when just hearing the word “buffet” would make my heart race. Back in my younger years, buffet meant excitement, abundance, and the freedom to eat everything I craved — all in one go. The idea of walking around tables overflowing with lobster, abalone, crab, and salmon felt like stepping into a treasure hunt. Friends would pass along tips: “Don’t waste time on potatoes, corn, or stir-fried vegetables — go for the expensive stuff!” Buffet was a numbers game — how much value could you extract from the price?
Xuân An
I used to be really good at this game. I knew what to pick first, how to pace myself so I wouldn’t get full too soon, and felt proud when my plate looked like a carefully engineered mountain of premium items. By the end, I’d be exhausted, my stomach overstuffed, but I’d feel satisfied — not from the food, but from thinking I’d “won” the meal.
But over time, things changed. These days, when I walk into a buffet restaurant, I still feel excited — but it’s a different kind of anticipation. I’m no longer chasing calories or value. I’m here for the atmosphere, the experience, the people. Buffet, to me now, feels like a gentle gathering — refined but not rigid, elegant yet warm. It’s an opportunity to observe, connect, and feel alive in a space where everyone is enjoying life in their own way.
I enjoy strolling between food stations at a slower pace, like browsing a thoughtfully curated market. I notice the details: how a slice of salmon sashimi is delicately placed on ice, how sushi rolls are shaped with care, how the desserts are arranged like tiny edible sculptures. These dishes are no longer just things to consume — they’re little pieces of someone’s craftsmanship.
I usually start with a small bowl of soup or a bit of salad — ironically, the very items I used to avoid. But now, they feel like a gentle invitation to begin, a way to prepare my palate and ease into the experience. I eat slowly, chew mindfully, and find joy in just a few well-chosen bites. I don’t try to taste everything. I choose what feels right — and stop when I’ve had enough.
The buffet ambiance on a weekend evening has its own quiet charm. There’s the soft hum of conversations, the clinking of cutlery, the glow of warm lighting over dishes and faces. I see servers moving quietly and professionally, refilling glasses, straightening napkins, keeping the rhythm of the evening in balance. The whole space feels alive, yet calm.
And then there are the children. I love watching them stand in front of dessert counters, eyes wide with wonder. Some hesitate before picking a colorful cake, others point excitedly at the cotton candy machine. These little humans remind me of myself years ago — full of hope, believing the world is generous and beautiful. For them, buffet isn’t just food — it’s a preview of a future they imagine to be abundant and bright. I often wonder: could it be that buffet is one of the first places children feel what prosperity looks like?
Sometimes I notice older couples sitting quietly, sipping hot tea, not eating much, just enjoying the company of one another. Other times, I see solo diners — choosing their food with care, then sitting alone in a comfortable silence. Everyone seems to carry a different story, a different purpose for being there. For some, it’s a family celebration; for others, a quiet treat for themselves. Each plate reflects not just taste, but a moment in life.
I no longer measure a buffet by how much I eat, but by how free I feel. A simple dish, a cool drink, a peaceful evening — sometimes that’s enough to feel full in the truest sense. These moments used to escape me when I was so busy trying to “get my money’s worth.”
Now, buffet isn’t a challenge — it’s an invitation. A space to rediscover myself in a softer version, to realize that fullness isn’t happiness, and that knowing when to stop might be the greatest form of satisfaction.
