All-you-can-eat buffets, I’ve begun to realize, are a kind of “third space,” in the same way coffee shops or bookstores—much more typical examples—are. I’ve been a buffet connoisseur pretty much as long as I can remember; my parents took me to one in Somerville, New Jersey when I was 6 or 7 years old, and I’ve loved them ever since. They’re all fairly similar, but I’m picky: out of close to 20 that I’ve tried across my current region, there are only a couple that I frequent.

Buffet dinners are somehow one of my most vivid memories of my years in grad school, the first time I truly lived alone; I wrote about that here. There were at least six Chinese buffets within a 15-minute drive or so of my apartment. I was in buffet heaven! As much as I like to cook, even just for myself, it was hard to resist the lure of all-you-can-eat Chinese food 10 minutes away after long days of classes, internships, or studying.

But once I was sitting down and eating, one of the things I remember most was the frequent birthday dinners that took place in these restaurants. Sometimes there were balloons or decorations on the chairs, but often the only indication you were looking at a birthday party was the cheesy rendition of the happy birthday song that the restaurant played over the speaker. One minute it was contemporary pop, the next it was that. Often, a server would come out with a slice of cake that looked a little nicer than what was served on the buffet.

There were different generic versions of the song in different buffets. None, of course, used the specific person’s name, so they had different filler lines. One used “Happy birthday, my dear friend,” while another simply repeated “happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to you.” I lost count of how many times I heard that song.

As an only child in an upper-middle-class household, my birthday parties were always more expensive affairs. Nothing outlandish, but we generally invited people to the house and spacious yard, bought a custom cake, and rented a moonbounce. I probably would have found a restaurant dinner, even at a buffet, to be a little underwhelming. Most of the parties and large groups I saw over the years were Black or Hispanic; most of those families probably didn’t have the money, and certainly the space, for the kind of parties I was used to as a kid. But the buffet was a place to celebrate, with an informal but fun atmosphere and enough food variety to please almost anybody.

Before COVID, these places were crowded, bustling, and lively. They were always full of groups and large families with young kids. The waitresses often played with the kids, offering them a fortune cookie or trying to distract them if they were getting noisy. The kids often ended up playing or running around in the aisles between tables.

I appreciate the collegial, informal tone of buffets, the fact that you can sit there alone for an hour or two like I often did, or come with a rowdy group, or bring young, rambunctious kids, and there’s almost never a complaint or a side eye. It’s kind of like how my mom described New York City to me: a live-and-let-live, unselfconscious diversity.

There’s an idea that buffets are examples of American greed or excess, which I guess they can be. But I also find them to be American in a much more elevated and even idealistic way: spaces that are open, easygoing, comfortable for people of all walks of life, microcosms of our country’s incredible diversity. They’re welcoming and bighearted places in a way that we like to think of ourselves writ large.

I hope they bounce back from the big pandemic hit, because they serve a much bigger purpose—especially for large families and lower-income folks, but really for everyone—than unlimited lo mein and chicken on a stick.

Related Reading:

Of Buffets and Seafood Boils

The Sun Sets on Harvest Moon

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