Fridays in the Middle East are like Sundays back in England. It's the day of rest, and also, as it turns out, the day that everyone, hotel guests and people living in Dubai alike, descend on the magnificent Al Qasr hotel for the all you can eat (and drink) buffet brunch. An enormous and famous enterprise spanning three vast interconnecting restaurants and terraces that you are free to wonder between with every kind of cuisine you can imagine: Grilled meat, prawns, sushi, truly exceptional and authentic Indian food, Mexican food, Italian, middle Eastern, puddings of every description, chocolate fountains, candy floss, and so forth and so on. Plus Sangria stations, Mohito Stations, Rum Stations, people walking around endlessly topping up your champagne glass. Accompanied by live music and starting at 12.30 and finishing at 4pm it seats hundreds of people at maximum capacity.
In the four years that we have visited Dubai, we have attended this buffet on three occasions, and on each occasion I look around at the Bacchanalian excess and decide it's a bad idea. Things like this inspire the inner glutton in people even if you aren't gluttonness by nature. Because it's not inexpensive you find yourself thinking: 'I must get my money's worth!' And if say, like my husband and I, you only go for an hour and half with the kids (beyond that and they start getting bored and running around) and have the equivalent of a starter, single mains, a dessert and two glasses of champagne, it's not great value. I imagine were we not with the children, and say with a group of friends, we could quite easily while away three and a half hours while grazing, talking, and getting mildly lit, as so many of the tables of people appear to do.
Some of the tables, however, don't so much graze as stock pile. And the plates of half eaten food and desert as people greedily go on to the next thing before the food in front of them is finished, always makes me feel deeply ashamed of this kind of wasteful excess even if it is not my own. I often wonder what some of the waiting staff, some of whom are from very poor economical situations back in their home countries, think of such gluttony and decadence.
It reminds me of an occasion where as a teenager I attended a wedding with my parents. My mother, who has a beautiful voice and would sing in the church at weddings, was almost always invited to the receptions along with my father and us children. They were grand and opulent affairs, where the bride and groom seldom knew a good 70 percent of the hundreds of guests because they were friends or business associates of their parents. At one such reception, a rare occasion my father had agreed to accompany us, he unluckily as it turns out, got sat next to the organists's boyfriend. The boyfriend, in contrast to my father's quiet and reserved nature, was an exceedingly loquacious man in his early 20s with lots of product in his hair, very pointy shoes, and a shiny suit that ended at his ankles. He informed my dad that because his girlfriend played the organ, he too got to attend a lot of weddings and the parties thereafter. He relished telling my father that by now he had fine tuned his modus operandi: He would eat and drink as much as he could, go to the toilets and make himself sick, and then return for rounds two and even three. To illustrate this he ensured the waiter brought him not one, but two large bowels of the soup we started with, and beamed at my father. I imagine intellectually my father thought this reminicent of how the Romans behaved at orgies, but instead of interest his face registered suddenly smelling something very unpleasant and he excused himself and risked the dance floor with my mother. "What a truly disgusting young man," my father later told us. "Who does such a thing?"
On our most recent visit to the Friday brunch at the Al Qasr, a nearby table comprised of two well dressed English couples in maybe their 50s. One of the women kept singing to and haranguing the increasingly wary-looking young man from the Indian Sub-Continent who would gingery approach to fill her glass. I imagine she was telling him not to wonder too far off because her glass would soon need refilling. I felt sorry for him. At one point she had to use the bathroom and needed escorting by her huband because she was unable to stand up alone let alone put one foot in front of the other, unassisted. By five minutes to four as we were about to leave with the children I noticed their table had visisted the Mohito station and had lined up rows of drinks to last them once the free booze had stopped being served. The last time I recall stacking up on drinks in this way I was in my twenties on a budget and it was nearing the end of happy hour in a bar.
If you are in Dubai, I'd definitely recommend having the experience of the Friday brunch even if it's just the once, because with the right company I think it can be an incredibly fun afternoon. And seeing that vast array of food so beautifully laid out is quite something. I also remind myself that irrespective of age or budget we all derive pleasure and ascribe value differently, and for some the opportunity to sample so many different kinds of food or perhaps even drink excessively is an afternoon well spent. Even if, like my unfortunate father's dinner companion from so many years ago, some require bulimia in order to achieve it.