This Midwestern smorgasbord shall remain shameless

When it comes to comfort food, I always believed that quantity trumped quality. That was before my "dining" experience a few years back, just south of Indianapolis, at The Smorgasbord That Shall Remain Nameless. Among other things, it explained why many buffet-going Americans are shaped like Weebles.

Nameless Smorgasbord -- we'll use that name -- is situated along one of those clusters of commerce you see at most urban-sprawl interstate exits, tucked amid a Holiday Inn, a Denny's, a Red Lobster and a Bob Evans. But even none of those offer the surreally diverse variety of pure mediocrity that Nameless Smorgasbord makes its business.

Entering, I am greeted by a nose-high display of flatware wrapped in napkins and a sign: "Take some silverware and seat yourself." Then, ahead of me, there it is: The Smorgasbord.

Walking the entire length of the buffet, I think, might mitigate the effects of its contents -- if it were laid end to end. Fortunately, it doubles back -- triples back, actually -- onto itself so all carbs and lipids are easily accessible by every guest simultaneously.

After downing a plastic tureen of Diet Coke for guilt-alleviation purposes, I approach the buffet wielding my plate.

Buffet melancholia

I start with a plastic bowl of stroganoff, which tastes as if it's made with one part water and 164 parts bouillon cube. Amid the flaccid egg noodles, I encounter a wedge of beef the size of South Bend and the color of leaf piles in late November. I plow through it and finish with onion rings, which are actually the only really palatable thing on the "menu" -- thin and crisp and salty, not at all like their bready Burger King brethren.

Next up: the hand-carved beef. The hand in question belongs to a late adolescent who, in his high-school pecking order, is clearly an audiovisual aide.

"D'ya want jooce with that, sir?" he asks.

The beef, while unabashedly gray, is palatable and a little crunchy at the edges. It's even vaguely tender, though that could be just the jooce. I look back across the board at the roast from which it was trimmed and see why it initially looked so rare: It was under a red heat lamp. Steam rises from each buffet dish, which -- because I am sitting down -- is at eye level, lending the vantage point of a dinosaur walking along what would eventually be Hollywood Boulevard and seeing the La Brea tar pits percolating on the horizon.

A plastic-encased table card catches my attention. It tells me that the first Nameless Smorgasbord opened in 1965. The chain has "been serving the Midwest since then and has become nationally known." It tells me that they require certain guidelines "to offer this much quality food at our low prices." I must try not to waste food. I must realize that if I leave food on my plate, they can charge me more. "And, of course, no 'doggy bags' allowed … NO EXCEPTIONS."

Back for more

Kielbasa is next. I pluck it from a forlornly bubbling lake of sugary barbecue sauce; its skin resists my teeth for an instant before it collapses into ur-sausage. I spin my plate 45 degrees counterclockwise to bring to the foreground the macaroni and cheese, which is predominantly the former and questionably the latter.

It has taken me half a minute to decide whether to partake; it is layered like shale -- a topmost crust of "cheese," a layer or two of elbow macaroni hobbled by tendonitis, and a bottom silt of gray water and unnaturally orange "cheese" granules, sort of the pasta's own jooces sinking back into the Earth. I take a bit, mostly because I cannot imagine visiting a Midwestern smorgasbord without eating mac and cheese. Each elbow, when consumed, squirts out a bit of jooce.

I can't talk about the pizza. Picture buttermilk biscuits made with too little milk, left out for three days, then topped with bomb-shelter canned tomato sauce and Tender Vittles cat food.

On my second trip, I procure some corn (greenish, limp, very sweet), more stroganoff (I won't try to explain why), a bit of meat loaf (for the same reason as the mac and cheese -- it's expected) and beef, again bright red until I pull the plate from under the lamp. The meat loaf, in gravy with unholy chunks of cooked carrot, is inedible. I eat it. Across the beige-and-green room, a fake fireplace "smolders."

Dessert isn't my obsession, so I bypass the cheesecake. I bypass the angel food cake, the pecan pie, the fudge brownies, the pineapple upside-down cake. I bypass the apple pie, the banana custard, the trough of whipped topping. I bypass the strudels and cobblers and crisps and the puddings and Jell-Os of myriad hues and tastes.

Many people don't. See reference to Weebles above.

I choose a forlorn little plate of vanilla ice cream from the Soft-Serve machine -- beige confection on white plate.

The total is $7.40 for dinner, $1.09 for the free-refill soda. They must make their money like they tout their product: with quantity. I have a suggestion: Weigh customers upon entry, subtract it from their weight upon departure, and charge the difference. They'd be rich quick.

I go back to my lodgings for the evening -- Room 203 of the Super 8 Motel. I do 50 situps.

Or, at least, I promise myself I will.