ALL YOU CAN EAT
                    (C)1989 Alan M. Schwartz

In the days when I lived in Pasadena, in the San Gabriel Valley, 
in the Land That Market Forces Forgot, each Thursday evening a 
dozen of us would get together to go out to eat.  We had been 
doing this for a couple of years when I got the expected Thursday 
afternoon call from Bruce:  "Hey Al, the (Name withheld by 
request) Restaurant has an 'All You Can Eat' Thursday!"  "For 
Sure!  I'll be there!"  I pondered a culinary Armageddon.

The most I have ever eaten at one sitting was two large 
garbage pizzas with a free quart of Coca Cola, although it was 
spaced over a couple of hours and no doubt amplified by 
participating in the communal sharing of a gram of Lebanese hash.  
Still, those hard-won student skills remain.  The Mousaski 
brothers are rumored to have been triplets, the third member, the 
runt of the litter, having been eaten in utero like a Polish 
sausage by the remaining two.  We have a Samoan dude who played 
football in high school.  He avoided the use of anabolic steroids 
because the coaches were concerned that he would molt or 
something and be disqualified for belonging to the wrong phylum.  
Mark is six foot nine and large for his size.  We have a dear 
little lady who rides a chopped Harley (a gift, we were told) and 
"needs meat for her muscle."  Scary.  About a dozen of us hit the 
dining rooms each Thursday, and this promised to be memorable.

I had envisioned a smorgasbord, a heterogeneous display of hot 
and cold items rapidly approaching their expiration date, 
furnishing good publicity at a low price.  Imagine our surprise 
and delight when it turned out to be a sit down dinner, seconds 
on food and drinks on the house as long as you cleaned your 
plate.  On this Thursday night fourteen of us read the rules and 
chuckled, crescendoing into full blown laughter.

"Hi, I'm Lotti and I'll be your waitress.  What will you be 
having?"

The first gal started at the top of the menu and we went around 
in sequence.  Mark said, "Beer."  Cries of "Beer Here!" and 
"Brewskis!" went around the table.  Lotti delivered and we ate 
and drank.  Football players have this thing about beer.

Lotti came back and asked about our dessert selections.  Dessert?  
The first gal started at the top of the menu and we went around 
in sequence.  Mark said, "Beer."  Cries of "Beer Here!" and 
"Brewskis!" went around the table.  Want more, want seconds, want 
eats!

Want thirds!  (Two of the ladies were watching their waistlines 
and sat this round out.)  More ribs, more ribs!  More beer!  More 
ribs!  I love to see fear in a waitress' eyes.

The secret of power eating consists of composition and timing.  
Go easy on the starch and airy stuff, go hard on that greasy 
dense protein that can slide and pack into a solid brick of 
nutrition and be digested over a period of days.  Never rush to 
consume.  Always maintain a steady pace of chewing, swallowing, 
and sipping.  Remember the story of the two bulls on the 
mountain, looking down into the lush valley in the springtime, at 
the hundreds of cows grazing and mooing...  "Let's run down the 
mountain and have us each a cow," said the young bull.  "Let's 
walk down the mountain and have us all the cows," said the old 
bull.  Power eating is like that: slow, steady, ponderous, 
unstoppable.

One of the best things about ribs is that they are mostly inert 
material.  Once you gnaw off those spiced and sauced beef or pork 
intercostal muscles, you are left with a respectable piece of 
bone suitable for heaping into giant middens to impress the 
surrounding diners who in turn clap and cheer as each platter is 
devoured, "More ribs!  More Beer!  More ribs!"  Lotti had 
discovered a monster with fourteen mouths.  BelchE14 (Ask 
somebody who programs BASIC).

We arrived en masse at The Restaurant With No Name at six PM 
sharp and greasily rolled out of there, carefully lest we 
explode, at half past eleven.  For less than $20 each the 
fourteen of us had consumed sixty rib dinners and more than 
four cases of beer, although one of the gals really had not 
held up to the full promise of the evening.  The manager seemed 
distinctly displeased with us.  See what happens when you don't 
eat dessert?