8 Plates...or Hell is a Chinese Buffet Restaurant

It's not the Keg.

My husband leans down to his mother and responds, We didn't come here for you. It's my child's birthday. It's where they wanted to go.

Well, it's still not the Keg.

Reservations have been made and we arrive on time to discover the parking lot has not been plowed of snow. So, my husband must drop us off at the front door.

Can I stay with you, Daddy? And, Grandma turns to look at her grandchild.

If they're going, I want to go, too.

No, neither of you can come because the parking lot is not plowed and grandma can't see to walk.

I can, too.

Both of you get out of the car. I don't think my husband is intentionally being rude, but he sure sounds that way.

My husband looks at me; he may be annoyed but, at least, he is escaping for five minutes to go park the car in the spot farthest away from the restaurant. A moment of calm in a sea of turmoil for him. Deserter.

We go in and the waitress takes us to our table and we order drinks while waiting for my husband to return.

I like Chinese fried rice. And, ribs, I do love their ribs. And, I want a hot cup of tea.

The waitress nods at my mother-in-law and leaves to bring the tea immediately---the matriarch doesn't touch it until the end of the meal, at which point, she tells me it is too cold to drink and she prefers a hot cup of tea. The Keg always brings a hot cup of tea at the end of the meal.

I want to say but you asked for a hot cup of tea as soon as we got here, but bite my lip and draw blood instead.

So, where's this fried rice?

My husband returns and it is decided he gets the children and I get his mother as we approach the buffet. There is a secret signal that passes between us that I interpret to mean that after everyone else is served, we can do the buffet together and pretend to be on a date. When I eventually return to the table and see his plate and the food, I realize he has no sense of secret communication between married couples and, obviously, understands a different language to me.

I lead my mother-in-law into the buffet and show her the different tables with their varieties of food.

That's not fried rice.

The matriarch is convinced Chinese fried rice has no vegetables in it. The restaurant also has bean sprouts sprinkled throughout the rice and I figure to someone practically blind, they cannot be appealing.

Okay, there is steamed rice. I point it out and put some on a plate.

I don't want that. That's not fried rice.

Plate number 1.

My husband comes over and suggests his mother might fancy some mashed potatoes and roast beef; then, stupidly, fills the plate.

Plate number 2.

My children are eating pizza. At a Chinese food restaurant. The quest for fried rice continues.

How about you try this one with the vegetables in it and we look for your ribs.

They make beautiful ribs, here. I know. I have been here before. I do like their ribs.

The choice is between bar-b-que ribs and sweet'n'sour ribs.

I don't like them.

God, please shoot me and put me out of my misery.

I thought you had them before. You said you had had them before.

I have never been here before. I was at a different place that had better fried rice.

Plate number 3 makes it to the table. Then, before my mother-in-law sits down, she informs me she would like a salad, a lettuce and tomato salad.

Not to be too pointed about it, I indicate to my mother-in-law she can't chew lettuce; that's one of the reasons I don't make salad. She can't chew tomatoes for that matter, either.

I can, too. When I lived on my own, I used to make salad all the time.

This is not an argument I can win because, while my mother-in-law did buy lettuce when she lived on her own, I used to go into her refrigerator and throw the rotting stuff out. She hasn't been able to chew lettuce for years, a lot of years, but, in a weird way, she doesn't know it.

Plate number 4 makes it to the table, too.

I'd also like a slice of bread.

The matriarch eats nothing without a slice of bread and butter; she prefers French, sliced bread and she peels off the crusts because she knows she can't chew them.

Plate number 5 is also at the table.

There is also a side plate for the table setting which the matriarch prefers to use when she chooses to spit out her food. My husband sits besides his mother and I sit in front of her because I got there too late and I am throwing dagger eyes at him. It is only fair that neither my middle child nor the birthday one have to watch their grandmother during a dinner out. Though, I do wonder why it always has to be me to sit facing the matriarch.

It's a bit crowded at the table and the waitress removes both my side plate and my husband's and looks a little bit worriedly at the matriarch and the amount of food before her. Little does she know, nothing stops my mother-in-law, certainly not the inconvenience of not having teeth.

I get up to get my own food and my children are onto their third helpings of pizza and I wonder why we even came to a Chinese food restaurant. We could have ordered a pizza at home, instead.

It is not pleasant when I return to the table. Apparently, everything on my mother-in-law's plate is too tough for her to chew. Not that that has stopped her from trying everything and spitting it out. As far as I am concerned, the whole mess with her salad is inexcusably rude and my husband is just embarrassed. Mind, he is pragmatic and puts the whole mess on his plate with a napkin over it so there are benefits to absence.

Grandma, do you want some dessert?

My oldest child is trying to distract grandma from the realities of her unappreciated meal and cold tea.

Yes, I'd like some dessert. My mother-in-law looks at me and I realize I have lost my appetite, anyhow, and get up again to escort her to the dessert table.

Do they have coconut cream pie? The matriarch is looking over the desserts, squinting to see if she can recognize anything, anything at all.

They have ice cream.

No, I like coconut cream pie. Obviously, they don't have coconut cream pie and the matriarch doesn't like banana cream pie so she settles on a slice of Black Forest Cake.

We settle back at the table with plate number 7 and the matriarch tries the Black Forest Cake and decides she doesn't like it; fortunately, she doesn't spit it out because the side plate and my husband's dishes have been removed from the table and, really, there would have been nowhere for her on which to put the spitum. I just want to go home.

My husband gets up to get his dessert and brings back some sort of custard square and the matriarch eyes it longingly. His dessert is forfeited to her and he gives up eating, too. Plate number 8 is before the matriarch and she gobbles up the custard square before the children even know she has a dessert.

At home, we have planned to have ice cream cake for the birthday child. My parents are expected early evening and we want to have a family celebration. I have no idea what the matriarch is going to do. So, we leave the restaurant and the matriarch sits in the front seat of the van beside my husband; I have pointedly told him I will not drive and the matriarch tells him how much better the Keg would have been had we gone there. My birthday child leans over to me asks why Grandma didn't like the food...