One woman is plating a glop of vegetarian delight and a duo of steamed shao mai with a side dish of the virulent Chinese Restaurant Mustard.
At a nearby table the gent is tucking into a raft of egg foo yung, seafood fantasia, boneless spare ribs. Teriyaki sticks pointing up like a porcupine’s bristles. Big pile of fried rice dumped over the top of everything. (I dub thee Mount MSG.)
To each his own, that’s the point of a buffet. Chess openings are the same way. Yes, you can play the Goring Gambit, c3 anti-Sicilians, the Exchange French and the Queen’s Indian. Still, I’m just faintly puzzled as to how you arrived at that particular combination plate.