A lavish Sunday brunch, hosted weekly by a five-star resort. Roast of venison. Elaborate raw bar. Every pastry known to (French) man. Omelette bar with the tall chef hats, and you don't wait in line for very long. And salads, oh, the salads! But I all really needed to say was "ice sculptures."
So that is exactly where I did not brunch or buffet today. That is where Michael's family brunched and buffeted today. I told him to ask questions (mostly about the raw bar, omelette, whether or not there was macaroni and cheese), but all he could get was that they enjoyed the shrimp. And the bananas Foster. The APB is still out about the whereabouts of macaroni and cheese.
With consideration to the best cook we know (who feeds us well), we were obliged to pick arugula all morning at her farm. Since it had been quite a day, starved for food and to more or lesser degrees hungover, we stopped at a place we euphemistically refer to as "The Bar." Since we are often expected at a bar, but we may have no way of referring to the bar without being specific about which bar, "The Bar" has a functional, evasive purpose.
This place, an "all-you-can-eat buffet with over 120 items!" features pizza and a salad bar. It happened to be after church, so fried chicken, nacho bar and mashed potatoes made appearances and because there were so many children, there was rarely a solo appearance. I went wanting to hate, but there was a ladle instead of a scoop in the catsup. Much appreciated.
None of us, even though Michael is a hipster, played pinball.