Wisecracking Across America - 23. Chapter 23

Friday, June 4, 1999

When we asked the motel manager for a good place to eat in Bangor, Maine---we'd long given up on the best food anywhere---she cheerfully said, "Miller's Buffet. They have over two-hundred items on their steam tables."

Run! Run Away! Now! Leave everything you own! No wonder Stephen King lives in Bangor.

But no, we had to explore.

Actually, the restaurant's full name is Miller's World Famous "All You Can Eat" Buffet. It's right there on the sign. "Would you like the buffet or the Lion's Room," the merry hostess asked as I stood nervously by her desk. Tom was already snooping, wondering if we really wanted to do this to ourselves.

"What's the difference?" I replied.

"Well, you can have either the buffet or the sit-down menu in the buffet room. But you can only have the sit-down menu in the Lion's Room."

The Lion's Room sounded too much like the lion's den, and besides, we'd come to experience the worst.

At that point, Tom returned. "It looks... okay," he faltered.

"You're sure?" I reasoned. Not that we had a lot of choice. There were absolutely no dinner recommendations in any of our guidebooks. We'd hit a Bermuda Triangle.

"Y-yeah," he stuttered. Since food means more to him than me, I took his word, and we followed the waitress toward steamed death.

And it would be great to say, "We were wrong. The food was terrific. Grab your girl and go." But we had it nailed.

So I ate carefully, having fun. Tom didn't, coming back from each trek to the endless steam tables plate-laden and hopeful. And they were endless: stretched, they would have made an airport runway. Looped, they were a blocked intestine.

Hot foods. Cold foods. Ethnic foods---like meatballs and spaghetti, this being Maine. Salads. Soups. Desserts. Bread. There was even self-service ice cream.

I began with the caution you greet one of those high school tests starting Read Everything Before Doing Anything. Rushing carelessly forward only leaves you standing on your desk, pants around your knees, T-shirt over you head, shouting, "I Am! I Am!" Slowly walking the entire line before making a decision, I finally assembled a small sampler salad: guarded scoops of Greek pasta salad, Italian pasta salad, orange-Jell-O-and-shredded-pineapple salad, diced black olives, sliced cucumbers served in-their-skins, and maraschino cherries. The cherries weren't really part of the salad bar, but I filched them from a dessert table, having always been a sucker for those red, shiny things.

"How is it?" Tom soon asked. He had a platter-sized plate loaded with all things green and leafy. Which he soon abandoned because he didn't like the smell, taste, or possible age of the presumed-blue cheese dressing.

"Newer than yours," I answered.

We both also had a small plastic bowl of tomato soup, bisque it's been called in actual restaurants. Before ladling anything, I'd stirred several vats of stuff, trying to induce their original colors. Each was labeled---Tomato, Minestrone, Fish---but only the orange stuff looked safe. Stirring the chowder, in fact, invoked ancient dietary taboos.

At least the soup was hot, and if you ate it quickly, the colors didn't re-separate. My salad was... all right. The cherries were especially sweet.

I went back for a second course. This time I chose round foods, carefully picked both by inspection and from reading the computer-printed labels---and sometimes you needed the label to identify the treat. I took Swedish meatballs, mini-corn fritters, black pitted olives, braised mushrooms sans stems, marinated Brussels sprouts, fresh garden green peas, and, of course, more cherries. I also slipped a little sour cream from a tamale display onto my plate, hoping it would help the dry fritters.

"I eat my peas with sour cream," I recited to an unamused Tom. He was facing a plate of brown things: Roast beef. Barbecued spare ribs. Steak. There were also black mussel shells, which, when opened, were empty.

"Just as well, " he admitted. "I hated the way they smelled."

"Then why did you take them?"

He glared at me, sharply. After all, I was the guy eating round foods.

Which were surprisingly... not terrible. The fritters were a mite chewy, but the closest I'd come to hush puppies before was wearing them, so what did I know. The Brussels sprouts were dense, but Brussels sprouts are dense. The olives were indestructible. The meatballs could have been fishing weights, but, like the mushrooms and peas, slid down easily, and the sour cream even tasted good on the cherries.

I set aside my empty plate. A smiling waitress quickly removed your dishes after every course.

"You're not going back," Tom asked plaintively as I stood.

"There's dessert!"

He looked ill.

Actually, I would've liked something more substantial than dessert, but I just couldn't face it. All those selections. All those labels. As inedible.

"What do you do with the leftovers?" I asked the manager as I walked the line. It was nearly closing, and he was beginning to pack.

"It all gets refrigerated," he grinned. "Except for the fried foods. They can't be reused."

"Do you donate to homeless shelters?" I asked, wondering if there were such things in Maine.

"Sometimes. Though there's really not much waste."

Formaldehyde being forever.

As he worked on, I continued to prowl. For dessert, I mainly took soft ice cream, which I doubted had ever been milk. The machine advertised three flavors, chocolate, twist, and vanilla, though they all tasted the same. I decked my white stuff with more cherries. "Maraschino Jubilee," I quipped to green Tom.

"Which is worse," he muttered. "The food or your jokes."

"Oh, come on," I laughed. "You knew this would be awful. Why not have fun?"

"I suppose," he replied grimly. "I just made the mistake of eating."

The best news was the bill: ten bucks each, plus two-and-a-quarter for Tom's wine---on the check it was labeled Hse Rd. And despite the No Doggie Bags sign, we lifted a napkin-wrapped biscuit for the mutt. Though back at the motel, when I set it before her, she edged suspiciously away.

319 miles