Now we have access to everything, we don’t know what we want. The knee-jerk response when you have a buffet of options in front of you is to want them all. Anyone who’s been to sizzler and seen a child stack jelly on top of the lasagne knows this.

While the plate looks repulsive, I respect the ambition. As a child, I, too, piled the plate with a pyramid of mismatched cuisines and courses. The thing was, I always went up for seconds. Thirds, even. So obviously the logical approach would’ve been to stack the first plate with one type of food, followed by the next type. For whatever reason, though, I had to have everything—NOW. Who knows, maybe this won’t be here when I come back, I thought, ladling mousse on top of the salad. This is why you find abandoned plates in Sizzler with enough food on them to feed a small family. Not that the remnants look like food. Mushy baby paste, at best.

To call it gluttony is too condemning—too Catholic High School. I like to think of the proclivity as more lion-like. As a lion, you don’t know when the next meal is going to come. So you feast on the buffalo until you explode. Understandable. Where such primitive precautions make less sense is in more domesticated settings where starving is less of a genuine concern. Take labradors, for instance. I have a friend who came home from work once to find his dog throwing up. He, the labrador, had got into the pantry somehow and woofed down two kilograms of dog biscuits. Then, after getting sick, the labrador ambled around the kitchen, eating his own spew, as if there would be no other meal, EVER.

The take-all-you-can approach is somewhat halted, though, when you don’t have a buffet. In other words, when you have to pay for every course. There’s a financial barrier. Most can’t afford everything. In saying that, I had a guitar teacher who used to work for a Spanish Prince. When the two used to go out for dinner, the waiter would come over and ask, ‘Have you decided what to order yet?’

‘Yes,’ the Prince would say.

‘And what would that be, sir?’

‘Everything.’

‘Everything, sir?’

‘Yes, everything on the menu.’ And so the waiter would bring out every item onto a long table. The two would then pick at whatever they pleased, leaving behind the rest, much like the kid at Sizzler.

The rest of us have to perform more of a risk-analysis. ‘Okay, if I get the mussels then I can’t get the calamari. Otherwise, that comes to $44. And I only have $60 to spend. Or maybe I can have both, but take out the chips and not have the glass of chardonnay.’

The yearning for everything, but the fear of paying lends to some interesting decisions. The game is really a tug-of-war between your younger Sizzler self and your adult self who is both reasonable but also carries buyers-remorse. There’s no other explanation for why you see a grown adult eating an extortionately priced entre consisting of two boiled carrots, a bowl of chips, and a bottle of chardonnay. “But I love carrots,” they say. No you don’t. You panicked. And now you wish you just got the chicken schnitzel.

Then there are the types who, like me, are easily persuaded. So I have to know what I’m having before I enter. Needing some formal wear once, I shopped in a boutique in the city and carried into the dressing room a wardrobe of items. Pants, mostly. Most of the pairs were unfit for a formal occasion, especially these bright yellow corduroys. But seeing them lined on the rack, I just grabbed them, anyway. I mean, they were there. After trying them on, the salesperson said, ‘Oh, my. They look amazing on you.’

‘You really think?’ I said, sucking in, highly uncomfortable.

“Yes, these pants were made for gentlemen with long, lovely legs like yourself.”

“They feel a little tight.” I turned my torso around to see they looked skin-tight, too. They were.

“They’ll loosen. Trust me. Maybe there’s a size up.”

“Okay,” I said, even though I didn’t even like them.

Everything was a blur after that. But I remember feeling bouts of guilt because the salesperson was spending so much time with me. And then I walked out—a clothing bag in hand. Needless to say, I’ve never worn them since. I even tried cutting a hole in them. You know, to make them trendy. But now they just look like ill-fitting pants that have been in a bike accident.

Not everyone follows through like I do. Arguably, these are the most frustrating types. You see a lot of them in the cafe, especially the one I work at, maybe because, at the counter, we have a cabinet full of food.

Even last week, a customer walked up, ordered a coffee, then said, “Oo-o-o, everything looks so good. What’s in that?” She pointed to the bagel.

“Bacon, rocket, avocado, tomato, cheese, aioli, chilli jam,” I said.

“And this?” she said, pointing to the wrap.

“Bacon, egg, rocket, cheese, barbecue sauce and aoili.”

“And what’s this?

“That’s banana bread.”

And so on. She asked about what was in every item in the cabinet. She even asked where the croissants were from.

“Mary Street,” I said.

“Oo-o-o, I love Mary Street.”

“So you want one, then?”

“Ah, nah-h. I’ll just have the coffee today.”

. . .

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