A Massively Overpriced, Mildly Unsatisfying Motel Breakfast
A Massively Overpriced, Mildly Unsatisfying Motel Breakfast
Tepid Mush in Sydney
I have two conflicting perceptions of casinos. There’s a glamour to them, a modishness that comes with red carpets, Rat Packs, and high rollers. Then there’s the other half. The trashy half. All the garish lights and klaxons of slot machines scratching the pathological desperation of pensioners, lonely hearts, and losers.
Sydney only has one casino, (although another’s under construction). The Star lies alongside the harbor, with an enormous sweeping entrance looking over the water, the city skyline, and the famous Sydney Harbour Bridge. Upper areas are protected by varying levels of exclusivity; the “Inner Sanctum” and “Vermillion Room” are invitation-only and have table limits in the six figures.
The main floor is much more prosaic. I imagine most casinos look much like this. At the fringes of the hangar-sized room are the table games: cards and dice, each table with their own croupier.
Lounging up and down the central strip, however, are the electronics. When I arrive at 7 am, this is where most of the punters are sat or slumped. A fat orchard of slot machines runs half the length of the room. Nearby, rows of seats, each with their own little console, face a screen where a CGI woman spins a CGI roulette wheel. There’s very little mirth or merriment in the air. Instead, everyone’s very serious, tired, and wan. It’s a cross between a video arcade and the situation room at NASA.
The usual buffet hall is under renovation, and it takes some time to find its interim location. Under normal conditions it’s a bistro bar, serving steaks and après-theater tipples. This morning it has the feeling of a school assembly hall on dance night: a space embarrassed by its half-hearted repurposing. The tables are the wrong size and height; there’s a broken coffee machine on the bar counter, alongside another one beeping for a filter change; and the cereals are hidden away in an alcove that should probably host a pool table. The staff have a sort of well-meaning bewilderment about them, like they’ve decided on a mass Jimmy Stewart impression.
The food matches the decor. A range of hot and cold bains-marie, with the standard “Continental” and “American” themes you’ll find in any Best Western, keep their offerings tepid and gluggy. In a concession to the Star’s huge Asian market there’s a few token offerings of fried rice and generic noodles. Bizarrely, the bread basket is on the opposite side of the room from the bread board and spreads. It’s not bad food. But it’s definitely not good food.
But what I’m really interested in is the clientele. I’d been hoping for early-morning carousers celebrating big wins with lobster and champagne, or, failing that, broken hearts facing the back end of a losing streak over a greasy full English. But the few other diners are business travelers from the hotel upstairs. They’re as quiet and industrious about their plain toast as the gamblers downstairs are about their machines. I linger for an hour and a half, hoping for someone more interesting to come in, but it’s emptier when I leave than when I arrived.
It’s all a bit crappy. A bit shabby. A breakfast buffet in a casino should be the epitome of either classy indulgence or sluttish, boozy excess. Instead, it’s just a massively overpriced, mildly unsatisfying motel breakfast. I feel cheated.