Adventure, At A Hotel’s Complimentary Buffet Breakfast Lounge!

Hotel complimentary breakfast is a fascinating human phenomenon both in India and abroad.

A man who normally wakes up at home and survives quite comfortably on two toasts and a cup of tea suddenly becomes a professional food auditor the moment breakfast is declared “complimentary.”

He is no longer hungry.

He is recovering room rent.

At home, he asks, “Do we really need breakfast?”

At the hotel, he looks at the buffet and thinks, “I have already paid for this. It would be financially irresponsible not to eat it.”

And then the operation begins.

First, he picks up a piece of fruit—usually an apple or banana.

This is important because he has to look healthy.

Then, slowly, the truth emerges.

Beside the apple appears an aloo paratha, followed by idli, poha, sausages and a tiny croissant whose identity he has never quite understood.

But it is complimentary.

Therefore, it must be respected.

Soon the plate has become so crowded that the food is applying for permanent residency.

So he picks up a second plate.

He tells himself:

“This one is only for the omelette.”

At the live counter, the chef asks:

“Veg or cheese?”

“Both.”

“Onion?”

“Yes.”

“Tomato?”

“Yes.”

“Chilli?”

“Yes.”

“Mushroom?”

“Yes.”

At this point, you realise we are no longer ordering an omelette.

We are providing the detailed biodata required for selecting a life partner.

Then comes the toaster.

He puts in two slices of bread.

They disappear.

Nothing happens.

He waits.

Still nothing.

He bends down and peers into the toaster as though a child has fallen into a borewell.

Just then, somebody else’s burnt toast suddenly pops out from somewhere.

The man looks at you suspiciously.

You look innocent.

This is now an international investigation.

Then comes the coffee machine.

Six buttons.

Seven symbols.

Nobody knows what half of them mean.

You press Espresso.

Two spoons of sorrow fall into the cup.

You press Cappuccino.

The machine groans, hisses, releases enough steam to power a small locomotive and finally produces so much foam that the actual coffee is living underneath it like a tenant who has stopped paying rent.

Back at the table, your wife looks at the mountain of food.

“Who is going to eat all that?”

You immediately become defensive.

“I’ve hardly taken anything.”

She looks at the table.

It appears as though the United Nations has just delivered emergency famine-relief supplies.

You begin eating.

Halfway through, the waiter comes to clear the plates.

You quickly put your hand over the half-eaten idli.

“No, no. It’s still going on.”

Still going on?

Is this breakfast or an old EMI that must not be closed?

And then comes the most advanced stage of the complimentary-breakfast strategy.

The pocket operation.

You see a perfectly good apple.

You are already full.

But you think:

“Why waste it? I might feel hungry later.”

Into the pocket it goes.

Perhaps a banana too.

Suddenly you are walking back to your room looking less like a hotel guest and more like a squirrel preparing for winter.

The stomach has surrendered.

The brain has surrendered.

But the eyes suddenly discover the dessert section.

“Muffin.”

One small muffin.

For later.

It is wrapped carefully in a napkin and transported to the room like a national treasure.

Back in the room, you lie on the bed.

You cannot move.

You cannot breathe deeply.

You certainly cannot bend.

For the next two hours, you lie there contemplating the meaning of life and wondering why you ate the fourth idli.

Eventually someone asks:

“Lunch?”

You proudly reply:

“No need. We had a very heavy breakfast.”

And there, ladies and gentlemen, lies the real financial genius of complimentary breakfast.

You have saved the cost of one lunch.

Unfortunately, your digestive system has been given two days of overtime.

And that is the true story of hotel complimentary breakfast:

You don’t eat because you are hungry.

You eat because you have already paid for it.

And somewhere inside every hotel guest, there is a little Chartered Accountant whispering:

“Take one more. It’s complimentary.”

Guchi.