Discover hilarious reality behind India’s favorite morning dining rituals
Complimentary meals have a strange way of altering human psychology. Nowhere is this more evident than at a hotel buffet breakfast. By 6:30 a.m., a transformation occurs. Individuals who normally require multiple alarms to function are suddenly standing guard at the restaurant doors, eyes fixed on the silver warming trays with the intensity of a sprinter at the starting blocks. When the doors finally swing open, any semblance of morning decorum vanishes, replaced by a frantic quest for the freshest poori.
In the world of luxury dining, the continental section often feels like a ghost town. While croissants sit untouched and bread slices slowly harden under the air conditioning, the real action is centered elsewhere. Most guests bypass the "minimalist" toast and eggs, viewing them as a waste of valuable stomach real estate. Instead, they congregate at the live dosa counter with a level of focus usually reserved for high-stakes property negotiations.
Then come the true champions of the morning: the Paisa Vasool overachievers. These diners approach the buffet as if they are on a mission to bankrupt the establishment. Their plates are architectural marvels, where spicy parathas rest precariously against Italian pasta, and slices of pineapple serve as a foundation for ideological food confusion. To these enthusiasts, the meal is less about nutrition and more about a calculated economic strike against the room tariff.
The buffet ecosystem is populated by distinct "tribes," each with their own unique rituals:
For children, the hotel buffet breakfast is essentially a sugar-fueled gladiator arena. They charge toward waffles, drowning them in chocolate syrup while successfully evading their parents' attempts to introduce a single piece of fruit. Meanwhile, Odisha food enthusiasts and influencers can be seen rearranging their plates for forty minutes. By the time the "perfect shot" is captured, the poori has lost its structural integrity and the tea is ice-cold.
In regions like Bhubaneswar or Puri, where hospitality is taken seriously, the staff watches this spectacle with a mix of professional resignation and quiet wonder. They field impossible requests—from gluten-free traditional snacks to sugar-free desserts—while maintaining a calm exterior.
Ultimately, the complimentary breakfast is more than just a meal; it is a complex intersection of class struggle, childhood nostalgia, and a personal battle with carbohydrates. It is the Olympics of getting one's money's worth. As the dust settles and the last smuggled muffin leaves the room, every guest participates in the same final ritual. We pat our stomachs, ignore the rising blood pressure, and utter the most famous lie in the history of travel: "Tomorrow, I’ll eat light."
We all know the truth. When the sun rises tomorrow, the lure of the "free" spread will be too strong to resist.