Hotel People

It's 6:45 a.m. A gritty, mundane magic pervades the air at "Valentine's Cove" in the Hamilton Hotel, known for its three and half star service and rooftop views of the New York City skyline. Silver troughs filled with thick wedges of French toast, pounds of flattened, cardboard-like bacon, mounds of shiny sausage links, and piles of other artery-clogging goodies shine proudly side by side on a long faux wood table.

All the tables are draped in white linen cloth. Large stainless steel urns of strong, hot coffee stand guard over the holy of holies--the omelet station. The priests, dressed as waiters, carry pitchers of iced water and cold pewter creamers to their individual altars and stand ready. For here at the Hamilton Hotel, the guests and the fatted calves are one.

At 6:00 a.m., on the sunrise of the Sabbath, (and Sundays, Thursdays, and Fridays), Valentine's Cove opens its doors for the best breakfast buffet in the tri-state area. This is not mere braggadocio, for it has been verified by Lodging Magazine, one of the top three industry periodicals in the country! The staff stands at the ready, and for a moment, Valentine's Cove is quiet as a church on the second week of Lent.

At 6:01 a.m., Sylvia, the matriarch of the Weissman family, is the first to arrive. She is a regular and one of the few who attend the buffet and do not stay at the hotel. Sylvia always dresses up for the buffets. This morning she is decked out in her ceremonial powder-blue sweat pants and a faded yellow blouse.

She rolls in, older and dustier than the pharaohs, her swollen hands gripping the armrests of the Amigo electric cart. The "electric" part of the cart, is on the fritz today. She is flanked by her sons, two Sumo wrestlers dressed as tired businessmen. Behind the electricless cart, her third son staggers, pushing her majesty further into the room; a zombie stumbling toward coffee and salvation. Everything about the first family screams "buffet veterans."

"Make sure the tea isn't so strong this time. It's always too strong. No one knows how to make tea anymore," she declares. The zombie rolls his eyes further back into his head. Since forever, he has been serving her "tea" consisting of a cup of hot water with a dry tea bag on the saucer. Always she complains that it is too strong.

The two Sumos break off from the procession and attack the omelet station, shouting out their demands while the zombie manhandles Queen Sylvia into position at the table. He collapses into a chair while she mutters something disparaging about the air-conditioning.

Royalty seated, the rest of the audience wanders in. A small army garbed in shorts, sandals, and mismatched socks. A few sport t-shirts with pithy sayings like "Obamanation," and "I'd trade gun control for bladder control!"

A family with three noisy children bursts onto the scene. The little demons descend on the cereal station like crows on a battlefield. The feast has commenced. Everyone settles in and the familiar music of forks on dishes and clattering ice cubes against glass lulls the guests into quiet gorging. Then, the main event. 

No one stops eating, but there's a familiar flavor of anticipation in the air. The waiters move a little faster, replenishing the troughs and re-folding those magical beige cloth napkins that refuse will never absorb or clean.

Lee enters the room, filled with equal parts of desperation and determination. A large man just starting to turn to fat, he moves as if he is walking against a strong wind, sometimes dispensing his own. Today he wears slightly grimy blue jeans and a black Izod shirt, which hides a small gut, the foreshadowing of years to come. He is alone, armed with a dog-eared Dean Koontz novel (the one about a child in danger and a pet dog). There's less than a full day's growth peppered across his face. Whatever hair he sports is hidden under a faded Yankee's baseball cap. Lee has stayed in many different hotels but Sunday mornings from 6:15 to 9:00 am are always the same. For Lee, every breakfast buffet is a personal challenge.

Listen carefully. Valentine's buffet is $24.95; about $5.00 more than breakfast would cost him at the Broadway Diner just down the road. Lee knows that he can hit the breakeven point by the second serving if he loads up on the sausage and bacon. But he's unsure of the quality of today's pork. It glistens with the promise of smoky satisfaction, but Lee would not be the first poor soul to be tricked by buffet meat products. He could pile on processed meats, but he decides against it. Two plates of greasy sausage and bacon would put him in the black, but Lee feels this would be a pyrrhic victory.

Instead, he chooses a cheese and onion omelet and three pieces of French toast. This is not without risk. While more satisfying, it is also more filling, and French toast always makes him feel sleepy.

"This tea is too hot," her highness announces. Shaky hands, replace the cup. Hot water splashes over the cup, and the lonely tea bag finally achieves its life's purpose, darkening the small puddle in the saucer.

Across the room, Lee takes his seat and digs in. In a concession to culinary preference over economic interests, he has piled the eggs on a toasted bagel. Strings of melted Swiss cheese hang over the ends of his bagel like Spanish moss. He alternates between the omelet and French toast, and by the time her majesty is satisfied with the temperature of her tea water, Lee is up for seconds. He is already full and a little tired, but he figures he is still about seven dollars in the hole. Lee, the Rainman of the buffet circuit, throws caution to the wind and loads up on the bacon and Danish. He knows this will ruin his day, but he also knows he'll finish this morning in the black. 

He piles the bacon so high that even the Sumo wrestlers take notice. Frick and Frack are on their 3rd plate already, but their portions are smaller and they are not members in good standing of the clean plate club. Amateurs.

Lee opens his Koontz novel and reads about the damaged but cute doggie. He quickly takes a chunk of bagel and eggs, then folds over a piece of bacon and sticks in the corner of his mouth like chewing tobacco. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he repeats the process until only the Danish remains.

A waitress glides over and refills his cup with more hot, black lubricant. He gratefully takes a swallow and then attacks the pastry. His blood sugar has spiked to a little under 400 and he's having difficulty concentrating. He keeps rereading the same sentence over and over, and his vision is a little blurry. But he has the presence of mind to know that he's eaten close to $30.00 worth of breakfast. He pauses to gently massage his chest. After a few moments and another large swallow of coffee, the pain recedes and he pops the last bit of Danish into his mouth.

Finally, he can breathe easy. The anxiety and tension disappear The pain in his chest recedes and the caffeine kicks in. He is rewarded with that false sense of immortality that surrounds all hotel people. Mission accomplished, Lee gets up for some window shopping at the cold cereal and yogurt parfait table.

"This grapefruit is sour," Sylvia announces.