Standing in the slowly moving queue, I am suddenly hijacked by a barrage of intense feelings I can’t quite seem to control. Don’t cry, I think to myself. Keep it together.
I am not alone. Everywhere I look there are fellow middle-aged people with tears in their eyes and grateful expressions on their faces. The whole set-up could not be more helpful or better organised as we shuffle along, slightly overcome, towards the holy grail.
I am well aware that some people have been hesitant. But there is no hesitancy to be found here, only hope and happiness as we move inexorably towards a phalanx of uniformed staff in face masks, their arms outstretched, implements to hand, ready to serve. I’ve dreamed of this for more than a year and a half. Now that I’m finally here, I take a minute to tune into the smorgasbord of feelings I’m experiencing, savouring this singular moment for posterity. I’m nervous. Excited. Ecstatic. Overwhelmed.
I’m three people away from the top of the queue at a hot carvery Sunday lunch buffet. I don’t mind telling you it’s emotional.
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Nphet may not agree, but I believe this astonishingly good carvery buffet in Co Tyrone is the kind of event essential for general morale
I didn’t know how I’d feel. But it’s even better than I imagined. It’s only when you are actually standing in a line, holding a giant white dinner plate and looking at four types of roasted meat being expertly sliced and served, that you realise what you’ve been missing most in these strangest of times.
It’s not just the meats, of course. In various bains-marie alongside are an overwhelming array of side dishes, including roast potatoes, mashed potatoes, chips, carrots, peas, cocktail sausages, Yorkshire puddings and the cheesiest cauliflower cheese I’ve ever had the privilege to encounter. There are two types of gravy. There are shining silver sauce boats containing every condiment your heart could desire, including that particularly eye-watering brand of horseradish sauce, which I reverentially slather all over my melt-in-the-mouth beef. I close my eyes midslather, uttering a silent prayer for condiment science.
Before anyone starts carping, I’ve travelled to Northern Ireland with my big plate for essential reasons. An essential family gathering. Nphet may not agree, but I also believe this astonishingly good carvery buffet at the Royal Hotel in Cookstown, Co Tyrone, is the kind of event essential for general morale.
What I want to do, as I look around, is harness the happiness in this room and bottle it as diners grab cutlery and dig in and rub their bellies and go back up for seconds. I will put the bottle on a shelf at home and stick a sign on it. The sign will say: Break glass in case of another lockdown.
But back to the carvery buffet (one I will be returning to in my mind for the rest of my days). This is a buffet that has starters, a selection of hot and cold small plates, a warm-up to the main event: miniature prawn cocktails in paper cups, a generous fruit plate, barbecue chicken wings, vegetable soup, crusty bread rolls, a mixed salad and – this also brings tears to my eyes – a random but also, and I actually think Nphet might agree with this, essential bowl of coleslaw.
At the end of the day, I'm just a girl, standing in front of an Ulster boy, asking him for more roast potatoes
We may be in Northern Ireland, but the only protocol anybody in this room is concerned about is the hot carvery buffet protocol: children first, obviously; we’re not complete animals. Then it’s every man and woman for ourselves.
We take photographs of each other’s plates, marvelling at the architectural constructions you can achieve with the careful positioning of turkey, chicken, beef and ham. There are ice-cream scoops of mashed potato. Towers of carrots. There is gravy pooling around the peaks and troughs of a meal we haven’t cooked ourselves, a feast that contains many more elements than we’d ever be able to manage at home.
Don’t carp, please, but also don’t worry. This is a private buffet for this one extended family. Most people here are fully jabbed. We’ve got our own, large and well-ventilated room. The windows are open, fans are whirring overhead, and jugs of diluted orange stand on every table, for hydration.
We catch up. We remember how things were in the before times. We eat. We laugh. Everyone admires my partner’s mother Queenie’s new pink leather trousers. She beams.
In the middle of all this, my partner’s sister’s husband, Jonathan, tells me that he and his work colleague, Big Phil, enjoy reading my column in their van in Belfast. “Big Phil’s wife is very impressed that I know you,” he says before adding, in case I might get too big-headed: “People say terrible things about you online don’t they?” But even that can’t spoil this beautiful day. I just bite into more roast beef. Slather on some more horseradish and steal a Yorkshire pudding from someone else’s plate.
I do worry slightly at one point but only for the legs of the table when I see the generosity of the dessert buffet. We’re talking pavlova, a chocolate cake, a cheesecake, a lemon meringue pie and profiteroles with a huge bowl of whipped cream. I let the more experienced buffet-goers ahead of me, sated as I am at this point, my big plate scraped clean.
Not entirely sated, I realise. As the others line up for sweet treats, I notice the carvery has not been quite cleared away and decide on an alternative dessert.
At the end of the day I'm just a girl, standing in front of an Ulster boy, asking him for more roast potatoes.
Inevitably, gloriously, Ulster says yes.
roisin@irishtimes.com