All hyphens, all the time

On New Year's Day, after first born got lost in the maze of one-way streets in the capitol city, we headed home without the gourmet dining we had planned for after the show. In a few minutes, we came to the now growing, little town where I once lived comfortably for about four years, and to which I have never had occasion to return. Looking for sustenance, we came upon an establishment familiar to me, doubly named "Chinese Smorgy," and "Chinese Buffet."

It hadn't changed a bit since the last time I had been there, almost twenty years ago. The same shopworn booths, the small graffiti-decorated restrooms, and the comforting poor-folks ambience are complemented by the $9.60 per person price for ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT, as proudly proclaimed on the building-length window.

The menu also looked unchanged, and we ate as much as we could, because it was still as tasty as I remembered, although first born bemoaned the lack of her favorite, pot stickers, which I could have told her hadn't been available before either.

A cryptic sign on the cough shield bravely states the obvious that more upscale buffets expect their patrons to realize -- "No Doggy Bags." It was a charming blue-collar dining experience.

FYI: No stray cats were observed in the vicinity.