https://removepaywalls.com/https://www.nytimes.com/2026/07/07/dining/las-vegas-buffets.html
My plate: a tiny blini with a mush of caviar, a piece of slightly overcooked cod on celery purée; thick, bubbled chicharron; a single, now dessicating shrimp dumpling I’d pulled from a steam basket then taken on a 10-minute walk; Boursin mashed potatoes pooling with a little fat; a slice of very pink prime rib; a mini birria taco soaking in a bowl of dark broth; a piece of sauced and grilled pineapple; a seeded cracker.
Who did this?
Distracted by the crowds, the warm lights of the carving station and a large mermaid made of fondant that looked a lot like Jennifer Aniston, I’d slipped into a kind of culinary fugue state. Back at the table, I was confused by my choices, but there was no denying that some part of me, revealed by the emotional mechanisms of this extravagant buffet, had made them. The buffet always shows you who you are.
When the server asked how I was doing, I told her I’d panicked and made a mistake (I think it started with the seeded cracker). That mistake had led to me making another and another, and everything I’d brought back to my seat now seemed peaky and pallid. On top of the embarrassment of not being able to make a decently proportioned, cohesive plate, of not strategizing as I’d been advised to do by several buffet aficionados, of thinking it would be chill to walk through the room and wing it — a totally amateur move! — I was full of regret.
The server told me not to worry (though she also said that she personally stuck to the crab and saw everything else as a distraction). “Try what you want, leave the rest, go back,” she said. “You always get a fresh plate, that’s the fun of the buffet!”
She gestured to the bussers all over the room, and if there was music playing, I couldn’t hear it anymore. This was the real soundtrack of the buffet — the constant and resounding clatter of plates cleared into plastic tubs. It was the sweet racket of endless do overs.
Go for the most expensive foods first. Avoid bread and pasta entirely. Make sure to put in a drink order before you get up from the table, every time. Everyone has a strategy so particular to their concerns that following someone else’s might not always work for you. In the end, the challenge and the reward of the buffet are exactly the same: In a limited time, with endless distractions, you must figure out what you really want.
A torched-to-order s’more? At the Buffet, the s’more was built as an open-faced tartine with a small marshmallow, and as a result, both the ratio and temperatures were off. The crème brûlée was set in a metallic fluted cup that recalled an empty espresso pod, but it was smooth, not overly sweet, not overcooked, with the sugar caramelized in a very thin layer. Still, I wasn’t interested in having another — by now I was dangerously close to full — and I was unmoved by the ice cream display or the waves of tiny layered cakes and cookies.
I wandered past a cute off-brand cartoon mouse made of fondant, dressed in stars and stripes, waving the American flag. This was the crepe station. Immediately, I wanted one with lemon juice and sugar inside, my favorite special breakfast when I was growing up. (If the buffet shows you who you are, then I guess I’m still 9 years old.)