Birthday buffet carnage...

Last night was my daughter’s seventh birthday. In addition to the morning greeting of a birthday balloon, cupcakes for the class and a parade of precious presents, this meant the ritualistic trip to a certain gluttony-inspiring Chinese-food buffet.

O brutal challenge to health-minded convictions, thy name is chicken balls.

It was the first thing I thought of when I woke up yesterday, this looming trial to my will. And as I made my way through the various twists and turns of my day, I thought of the subject often, dwelling particularly on the velvety sweet-and-sour sauce and the way a stack of deep-fried shrimps makes such a pretty addition to a plate.

There were times I could imagine behaving at the trough, could picture myself making wise choices, lingering at the salad bar, eschewing General Tso in favour of a lesser-ranking but more conservative member of the ranks.

But there were times, too, when I let my mind drift to the impossible bounty of offerings that awaited me there. I thought of the oil-glistened mounds of chicken-fried rice, the little pots of glutinous teriyaki sauce, the way light bounces off lemon chicken. And don’t even get me started on the ice cream bar and the way a person is allowed to add not only as much ice cream as they want to her bowl, but to adorn it with an endless stream of candy-coated toppings. Endless!

In the end, I decided to throw my fortunes to the soy-sauce-scented wind and let fate take its course. Oh, I did what I could to tip the scales in my favour—taking a little run before heading out, drinking an abundance of water to trick the tummy into fake satisfaction, watching a series of educational films on the dangers of gastronomic overindulgence—but I think a part of me knew which scales were going to be most in play on this day.

After a strategic wardrobe change into pants prominently featuring an elastic waistband, the family and I packed up our birthday gifties and pointed the minivan in the direction of this glorious tribute to Asian excess.

Looking back on the carnage now—the discarded shrimp shells spilling off the plates, the coagulating pools of lemon sauce, the heaps of gnawed-at ribs—I find myself suffering a kind of buffet hangover. Memories of exactly what I consumed at that dinnertime bacchanal come swimming up to me from the murky depths of my brain from time to time, but I push them back down with force.

I strayed at my daughter’s birthday festivities. I wandered into uncharted territory, where an all-you-can-eat pizza bar knocks shoulders with enough Black Forest cake to make you take flight. Where a person could find enough comfort in a stainless-steel serving dish to make them forgive almost anything. Where a flimsy sneeze guard is the only division between conviction and capitulation.

And I succumbed. I was no match for the heavy sauces, the fragrant spices, the breaded glory of it all. When it comes to the Chinese food buffet, the only balls I apparently possess have a tender chicken centre and are encased in a coat of golden brown.