Breakfast is Included

On the hotel breakfast buffet

“I only have four hands.” The White Lotus (Season 2)

Everyone in this room has made the same decision this morning, which is to stay inside.

This is not because the city outside is uninteresting. The city is probably very interesting.

That is not the issue. The issue is that breakfast is included, and it would feel irresponsible not to take advantage of it before going out to experience culture.

So we have gathered.

Some of us are wearing real clothes. Some of us are in gym wear that will never see a gym. Others are dressed in a way that suggests they intended to come down quickly and return to bed. We are not here because we are hungry so much as because it would feel wrong not to be.

This is why the breakfast room is the most honest place in any hotel.

The room itself could be anywhere overseas. But today we are in Japan. This becomes apparent not through signage but through the buffet layout, which has been neatly segregated. At the center of the service area is a large island of Japanese breakfast carefully organized with things like grilled fish, miso soup, and rice. Circling it, like a defensive perimeter, is a ring of Western food: toast, scrambled eggs, yogurt, pastries. People circle the island once before deciding how brave they feel.

Before you do any of this, however, you must secure real estate.

Tables are claimed quickly and without ceremony. A room key that looks identical to all others. A paperback that won’t be read but is brought down solely for this purpose. Only once your territory is established are you free to forage.

I watch a middle-aged couple approach the onigiri baskets. They lean in, reading the labels with concern. There is a pause long enough to suggest internal negotiation. Then, without speaking, they pivot sharply and head for the instant scrambled eggs.

Behind them, a child is inspecting the pastries, and by inspecting, I mean touching everything. He lifts a pain au chocolat, puts it back, lifts it again, then settles on the mini donuts, which he also touches before selecting. His parents say his name in a tone that suggests this behavior is not new, only now international.

The air-conditioning is set aggressively, somewhere around 62° Fahrenheit, as though the hotel would like us to eat efficiently and leave. I am wearing a cardigan specifically for this room. I did not need it anywhere else. I packed it for this. I am prepared to stay.

The coffee machines are where the room’s patience is tested. There is a single-file line, and everyone knows exactly how long a cup should take. When someone reaches for a second cup, clearly for a spouse who is not present, the line stiffens. There are glances back to other tables that say, Can you believe this? Yes, we all can.

As I eat, I like to sit and watch others. A man in a very expensive suit is standing at the toaster. It is the kind with a conveyor belt that moves at the speed of plate tectonics. He watches his bread disappear into the machine with intense focus. Five minutes pass. The toast emerges, not to his liking. He puts it through again. His meeting is clearly not for several hours.

Because we are in Japan, there is a noodle station behind the counter. A staff member assembles bowls patiently, ingredient by ingredient. People stand there with the quiet gratitude of those being helped, enjoying the novelty of having noodles for breakfast. Nearby is the omelet station, where guests are asked what they would like inside.

This question routinely breaks people.

I watch one man stare at the available fillings —cheese, mushrooms, onions, ham— for a full two minutes. He nods thoughtfully, and he considers what his original plans were for the day. Finally, under the pressure of the growing line, he says, “All of it.” The staff member does not react. This is not their first day.

The most dangerous feature of the room is the matcha soft-serve machine. I am not interested in ice cream for breakfast. But the machine is here, humming quietly, and the logic of the buffet dictates that if I do not take advantage of it, I am somehow losing.

A child begs their parents for a cone. They relent. He takes one bite, pauses, and looks betrayed. This is not sweet. This is bitter, and it tastes like plants. He hands it back to his mother, who now has to decide whether to eat it for breakfast or let it melt slowly on her plate.

The buffet puts everyone close enough to notice things they would rather not. We stand close together, pretending not to notice one another while cataloging everything. We judge milk-to-coffee ratios. We notice who goes back for seconds.

When I leave the room, the city is already awake and busy. We’ll get to that. For now, I have gotten my money’s worth.

I was here because it was included.