Endless shrimp

I once ate six corndogs for lunch. Why six? Because that's how many there were. If eight had come in the package I would've had eight. And I would've felt the same way after eating them, disgusting. Not only because of the volume of corndogs, but for the simple existence of the corn dog itself. Take an unhealthy conglomeration of low-grade scraps from the floor of the slaughterhouse, process it all together into a fatty, salty, unnaturally shaped log of meat, batter it, fry it and put it on a stick to make an unhealthy choice easier to stuff into your face. What pleasure.

I once went to a pizzeria and ordered a 16-inch pizza. Once I ate my way through two-thirds of the pie, I felt the rest would be too little to take home and decided to finish the job. After the eighth and final piece, I stared at the empty pedestal the pizza had been served on. Not even crust had survived my caloric binge. I expressed a desire to purge then waddled out of the restaurant.

These had been two instances that I had always recalled as times I ate way too much for no good reason. I ate, ate and kept eating because food remained. Like a dog left alone with a platter of honey barbecued chicken wings, I stopped not out of choice but because the food ran out. I have to admit though, from time to time it's fun to do, as embarrassingly gluttonous, slobbish and unhealthy as that may sound. It's exactly why the moment I saw a chain seafood restaurant's commercials for all-you-can-eat shrimp, I knew I would take part. I couldn't think of a better predicament to be in, imagining myself sitting before platter after platter of shrimp with an unending supply of cocktail sauce.

Upon settling into a booth, I spotted the so-called endless shrimp on the menu. I questioned the waitress how the process worked. To start, she explained, you choose two dishes from the list of fried shrimp, coconut shrimp, popcorn shrimp, shrimp scampi and shrimp pasta. Once you polish off those two you can order more shrimp, one dish at a time, for as long as you want.

"Hell yes," I said, pointing at the selection on the menu. I imagined the waitress coming out at some point and muttering the line from Seinfeld "The ocean called. It's running out of shrimp." That's how much shrimp I planned to put away.

Already nestled in the land where shrimp never end, I was jostled with unexpected questions from the waitress. Garden salad or Caesar? Baked potato, mashed potato or French fries? In what-the-hey fashion I shrugged my shoulders and offered my request. More for the money, I thought.

Further adding to the feast was a basket of garlic butter biscuits laid on our table. What I thought would aid me in my overeating endeavors – starving myself in preparation – turned out to be the first downfall. So hungry was I that I inhaled a Caesar salad and three biscuits without much thought. My hunger deluded me into thinking salad and biscuits would bounce off me like Jell-O and saltine crackers.

After giving ample time to let the salad and biscuits begin to take effect, the shrimp finally arrived, fried and scampi per my specifications. Twelve of each assortment, the shrimp weren't jumbo but were not tiny either. Like the salad and biscuits, I put away 24 shrimp and a scoop of mashed potatoes with little effort.

And then I waited. The waitress was suddenly nonexistent. And as I sat, my stomach began to send a clear message to my brain. "Things are filling up down here, Jack."

The waitress reappeared and I quickly put in an order for coconut shrimp. And waited again. If they were going to advertise this never-ending shrimp extravaganza, I thought, at least have some ready to go.

And then it became clear. These were definite steps of conspiracy inserted into the endless shrimp process to limit the number of shrimp a person can humanly consume.
The salad and biscuits? Obviously it costs less to plump someone up on salad and biscuits than with shrimp. And the one-at-a-time policy gave waiters an opportunity to drag their feet when taking and putting in your next order.

"Bah!" I thought.

Nonetheless I put in order after order. I stopped after 60 shrimp, my head on the table as I groaned "No more shrimp." I stopped when the word "scampi" began to make me want to throw up, when grease and butter on my hands looked to be permanent. Unfortunately I also stopped because the waitress had once again disappeared, saying in some way, "OK, Jumbo, you've had enough."