Recently, when on the topic of buffets (I have no idea) with a couple friends, we learned that a friend of theirs had recently seen Mike Shanahan at Souper Salad. This news was disturbing. I’ll even call it disappointing.
Why is it that I cared? Why is it that I have such disdain for the all-American “buffet”? Well, let’s see. Germs and obesity are at the top of the list. I could go on. But I happened to have written a blog about buffets awhile back. And I think there’s a little connection. . .
When I was young, a day at Southpark Mall with my Mom meant Foxmoor, Benetton and if we were feeling luxurious–a little Mark Henri. A paper-wrapped pixie from Fannie May was sugarcoated elegance and Orange Julius seemed to be the early version of a Starbucks Frappucino. Lunch was another important decision. While Chinese made me feel international and Riverside Cafe seemed intellectual beyond my years, when I was no more than ten, when I still had hair down to my butt, a trip to Bishops, the buffet, the one where blue-haired ladies with big pocketbooks bragged about the BookIt accomplishments of their grandchildren, was like attending a Broadway Show. And I guess I’ve just figured out why.
It was always dark–the clang of chatter and silverware mysteriously emerging from its shadowed maze of swiftly moving chefs and stainless steel surfaces. The neatly wrapped marshmallow salads and compact bowls of cole-slaw, each screaming “pick me!”, rested in rows before my empty tray. And the chocolate-shaving-topped-cream-pie, saran-wrapped to perfection without a smudge or smear in sight, seemed like a special delivery. At Bishops, I could see everything, inspecting for secretly inserted onions or nuts, before making a commitment. From its own pure white china plate, my gravy didn’t know how to get near my bread and my corn could never creep into my tapioca pudding. While some of these preference speak to the early stages of my neuroticism, Bishops buffet was plainly and simply about endless variety and protection of the commitment-phobic. And especially at ten, when jello flavor was a high priority, Bishops Buffet empowered me.
During our time in Bulgaria, right after we were asked about our favorite Bulgarian food, the subject of American food would arise. After we denied that McDonald’s hamburgers were our national dish, they wanted to know, if not fast food, what DID we eat? Well, um, usually Indian, Mexican, Thai, Japanese or Italian, which left us with no answer at all. When we considered holiday meals, mashed potatoes came quickly to mind, but what else? Barbeque ribs seemed American, but very regional. What about hot dogs? Macaroni and cheese? We eventually decided that the beauty of America is the variety–that because of our many immigrant ingredients, you could find endless ethnic culinary possibilities on any major metropolitan avenue.
As we travel, we notice how little tolerance we have for the same song, the same shirt or the same sandwich. It’s no wonder because America is the ultimate buffet. Our nation, like so many others, still embodies centuries-old traditions. We just have so darn many of them. And if our immigrants still cook, bake and celebrate with their own native traditions from Ireland, Germany, Mexico or Italy, all the better.
Bishops is long gone from Southpark Mall, but I guess we need not worry, ‘cuz Souper Salad is all the rage now. Even for Denver’s millionaires.
Bishops is still at southpark come visit!