There’s a strange sadness in front of a buffet like this — not dramatic, not tragic, just the quiet sigh of effort without direction. The moment you look at it, you can sense the intent: someone wanted abundance, variety, a little culinary theatre. Yet what landed here feels more like a warehouse inventory of edible items, lined up under cold lights with the enthusiasm of a dentist’s waiting room.
The trays are full, undeniably full — stuffed zucchini lined up like stage extras waiting for instruction, breaded cutlets stacked with mechanical confidence, roasted vegetables trying their best to look rustic but somehow giving off the energy of airplane reheats. On the middle shelf, a pan of broccoli sits in a red enamel dish, a brave attempt at presentation that only highlights how tired the ingredients look. In front of it, some saucy chicken bites glisten with a glaze that feels like a sales pitch more than a flavor.
Then there are the sausages — pale, unbothered, almost existential — the kind that make you think: *were they cooked, or just shown a temperature chart and told to believe?* Next to them sit strange beige spheres that might be dumplings, or falafel, or compressed existential dread. There’s also something breaded that might once have been fish, chicken, cheese, hope — impossible to tell now. Everything blends into the same comforting but soulless palette of yellow-brown-orange.
Nothing claims identity. Nothing owns a story. This isn’t Greek, or Italian, or Israeli, or vegan, or comfort food, or gourmet — it’s just… food. A buffet without a point of view is like a novel with no protagonist: something technically exists, but no one remembers it afterward.
What’s missing isn’t flavor — we can’t taste it yet — but character. Food is communication, even when simple. A single dish prepared with confidence can feel like belonging. But here, every plate seems afraid to speak, so they whisper the same apology: we mean well, please don’t ask too many questions.
Sometimes you can feel when a food event failed before anyone takes a bite. It’s written right there in the lukewarm shine of gravy, the perfectly aligned potato wedges, the identical portions, the sense of duty instead of joy. Events like this weren’t born from passion — they were assembled from checklists.
And so, I stand here, watching a buffet that looks complete but feels empty — and I know, without tasting a single forkful, that this was meant to impress, but never learned how to welcome.
Because yes — I know a failed food event when I see one. And sometimes it only takes one glance to see the difference between food meant to feed, and food meant simply to exist.
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