I’m just about to finish the cover for a new book about our most common as well as some of our most weird phobias and fears. I’ve included some of my own personal phobias and fears, mild as they may be. One of these are an increasing disdain for restaurants and hotels with buffets.

I know some people love buffets. The freedom! The variety! The piles of lukewarm lasagna next to sushi next to a mysterious bowl of “Asian-Irish Fusion Chicken”!

It’s a dream come true for those who like trying a bit of everything. I used to be like that. Now? Not so much.

In fact, I have a bit of a buffet phobia. Okay, maybe not a full-blown phobia, but definitely an unease that sits somewhere between mild suspicion and physical disgust.

Let’s start with the utensils.

The communal spoons, forks, and tongs – innocent enough in theory, but in practice, they’ve been handled by dozens (hundreds?) of hands before mine. And while I’m sure most people mean well, I can’t help but wonder: did the person before me just sneeze into their hand? Did they just scratch their left nostril, bite their nails, fondle their phone, or – heaven forbid – lick their fingers before grabbing the neon green pasta scooper now in front of me?

Then there’s the food itself. I don’t like to, but I find myself often thinking about how often that tray of cheese or cold cuts has been in and out of the kitchen fridge. Are those fish cakes freshly made or have they been reheated for the third time today? Did someone forget to put it back quickly enough, and now we’re all playing a fun little game of “Will I get a case of serious food poisoning or just a really bad stomachache?”

I know I sound dramatic. (Okay, I am dramatic.) But there’s something about the combination of food sitting out for hours and the conveyor belt of people breathing over it that just doesn’t do it for me any more.

Give me a freshly plated dish – made just for me – any day. No offense to you buffet lovers out there – you do what makes you happy. I’ll be over here, gladly ordering à la carte and keeping my mini-phobia at bay.

Now – if I may escalate this into full-blown buffet hysteria for just a moment…

Buffets aren’t meals. They’re psychological obstacle courses. There’s something inherently stressful about being handed a tray the size of a satellite dish and told to assemble a dignified meal while weaving between screaming children and confused seniors.

The layout alone is an existential puzzle. Who decided sushi should sit two trays down from beef stew? Why are there pancakes next to shrimp? I once saw chocolate mousse slowly melting next to a bowl of garlic herring. That wasn’t a dessert table. That was a cry for help.

And while everyone else is out there double-stacking their plates like it’s some kind of Tetris championship, I’m too busy conducting a forensic analysis of the salad tongs. Did that guy just touch them after wiping his forehead?

So yes, my book will absolutely include buffet-induced anxiety under the Food chapter.