One of these days you’ll get the urge to try out that new eat-all-you-can joint down the block with some friends, or perhaps alone in the verge of spontaneity. These places excite your salivary glands and churn up the hydrochloric acid, and you leave feeling large even after days on the toilet rim. You get a seat, leave your satchel to mark your territory and head towards the endless rows of sushi, raw meat, chicken entrees, and so on. Suddenly, you appreciate vegetables and fruits. Suddenly, you appreciate the cuisine of faraway lands. The assigned chef is more than willing to serve you a ladle of noodles. You stuff your plate, your mouth; You talk without a worry in the world, not caring about the rising triglyceride levels in your blood, or the stones forming in your gallbladder. Your mindset is focused on finishing everything and maybe grabbing another opportunity to return. Customer is king; you’re the honored guest for being able to pay. You laugh at how your friend gobbles like a monster, or how the guy at the next table hogs the dessert bar. You assign dishes according to the size of people. A Korean stands up and dances to the music, while waiters encourage the rest of the jolly folk to follow through. It’s a fun place, a hybrid of some university cafeteria and an in-house hotel restaurant for middle-class men. It’s a place for no remorse, not even if four million families outside its doors are hungry, waiting, watching.