In our final hours at Bai Hotel, we tried to savor every minute. Waking up at 6:00 AM felt like a small victory.
It's a rare moment of discipline in a vacation defined by indulgence.
We had grabbed breakfast passes the day before, and now we're ready to jump in. It felt like a man vs. food battle underway.
I've seen my share of breakfast buffets, but this was something else. There were stations where you could mix your own shabu shabu, ask the cook to whip up an omelet from your chosen ingredients, or get into some serious custom fried rice.
And, as if from another world, a taho vendor meandered through the cafe, his "taho!" calls cutting through the morning buzz. With ten sections to wander through, I half-believed I'd worked off the calories from my first plate just by scouting the next.
It felt like a breakfast designed for those with the appetite of a marathon runner, not someone like me, who considers lifting a coffee cup a morning workout. 😅
Yet, there I was, navigating this culinary maze, convinced that if eating were an Olympic sport, I might just bring home gold—or at least a satisfied grin.
It's worth mentioning that the night before had been an all-you-can-eat buffet at Cabalen's.
There's something both thrilling and slightly terrifying about the phrase "all-you-can-eat," especially when you approach it with the gusto of someone who mistakenly believes their stomach is a bottomless pit.
As we sat down for breakfast, I couldn't help but reflect on the huge difference between the evening's indulgence and the morning's bounty.
The night at Cabalen's was a testament to my overconfidence in my eating abilities, a humbling reminder that my eyes are indeed larger than my stomach. It was a feast where I ambitiously piled my plate, only to realize that ambition doesn't equate to capacity.
Grabbing the back of my neck, I thought "is my blood pressure rising?" while the sign in front of me pushed me to continue the fight. It read "Strictly No Sharing, No Leftovers"
And here I was, facing another buffet, albeit with a slightly more strategic approach.
The experience at Cabalen's had taught me a valuable lesson in moderation, a lesson I was determined to remember as I navigated through the breakfast spread.
No rice. Less carbs. Don't justify the price with a heavy belly. Gluttony is a mortal sin. Keep your sht together. Eat in moderation. "We can do this," I could hear my inner demon as it now decides to cooperate with my body.
It was a moment of introspection, a realization that sometimes, the richness of an experience isn't measured by the quantity consumed but by the ability to savor each bite, to appreciate the flavors, and to listen to one's body.
I loved exploring different cuisines, and trying to embody other culture's palate.
Most of them I liked, but there were few that I had to forcefully swallow. Some cold cuts and cheeses are enjoyed as an acquired taste. Some tasted like how dirty socks smell, for me at least.
I haven't acquired the dirty socks palate just yet. But I'm very sure some cultures feel the same about our Bagoong.
I had to forcefully swallow some of the ones I don't like, pulling strength from staring at the No Leftover Policy sign. On top of that, I had to keep a satisfied face in front of the staff. 😅 Besides, it's not their fault my palate lacks culture.
It's a true test of character under intense trauma.
Whether I love a certain dish or not, I thank the heavens I got to try these out. It's a learning experience.
This breakfast wasn't just another meal; it was a second chance, an opportunity to enjoy without overindulging, to find a balance between desire and satisfaction.
As I made my way through the sections, I found myself not just tasting food but experiencing it, allowing each flavor to tell its story, each dish a reminder of the night before and a lesson learned.