The All-You-Can-Eat Buffet Experience in Miami in the '70s: A Comedy of Carbs, Cubans, and a Quest for More Alex Gutierrez

 

The All-You-Can-Eat Buffet Experience in Miami in the '70s: A Comedy of Carbs, Cubans, and a Quest for More     Alex Gutierrez

Let me take you back to the magical, carbohydrate-loaded days of the mid-1970s in Miami, a time when the all-you-can-eat buffet was more than just a meal—it was an Olympic sport, a rite of passage, and, to be honest, a test of survival. This was long before the Fuddruckers sign graced the spot at 14875 South Dixie Hwy, which was once home to the legendary Sweden House, the hallowed ground of many a hungry, money-savvy kid. Now, in retrospect, it was more than just a place to stuff our faces with a week's worth of calories; it was the Sunday pilgrimage we dreamed of all week long, and it was way better than anything our moms ever made ( although we would never tell her that ).

The Quest for Cash: A Story of Coke Bottles and Lawn Mowing

Picture it. Miami. The '70s. The average hourly wage was a lofty $2. Gas was 50 cents a gallon (yes, you read that right), Barry White had a huge hit with an instrumental song that became the theme of all " Quinceaneras" in Miami and if you wanted to eat at Sweden House, you needed to scrape together some serious cash—like, at least $2. This was no easy feat for a kid like me and the kids I hung out with.. No online jobs here; we had to go old school.

I had a system: collecting Coke bottles, mowing lawns, and begging my parents for whatever loose change I could scrounge. Let’s face it, it wasn’t glamorous. You had to earn that buffet. I mean, $2 might not sound like a lot today, but in 1977? That was practically a fortune. And if you were lucky enough to land some part-time work as a bag boy at Pantry Pride or DJ-ing house parties with the "latest" in disco hits, you might just get there.

After several days of relentless hustling, scraping, and mooching (thanks, Mom!), I finally managed to save up enough for the all-you-can-eat glory. But then came the next obstacle: transportation. We didn’t exactly have Uber back then, so our Sunday buffet dreams depended heavily on finding a friend with a car. If you had a ride, you were a king. If not? Well, good luck . So we’d scrounge together a crew and, with our wallets bulging with that sweet $2, we’d pile into whatever " Pisicorre" could take us.

The Sweden House: A Land of Mystery and Misunderstanding

The minute we walked through the doors of the Sweden House, it was like entering a strange new world. "What is this?" we asked. "Where’s the rice and beans?" We were ready for a hearty meal of Cuban comfort food, and instead, we were confronted with something that looked like it came from another planet. Salad was the first thing you saw. SALAD. The horror! As Cuban kids, we were more accustomed to plates piled high with arroz con pollo, croquetas, and some seriously hearty pork. Salad? You mean , we eat this? and then we were introduced to all those delicious dressings....Thousand Island was a game changer

But we weren’t about to let something as trivial as unfamiliar food stop us. Oh no. The real goal was to out-eat everyone else at the table. This was the competition. And believe me, when you're in your teens, you don't back down from a challenge, especially when there’s endless mashed potatoes, spaghetti, and those strange little meatballs that no one could identify.

A Salad? Never Heard of Her.

Somewhere between the endless plates of cold cuts, canned fruit salad, and—oh yes—those suspicious gelatinous desserts (Jell-O, we hardly knew ye), we learned something about ourselves: we were pioneers. We were the first generation to take a bite of the "salad bar," a concept so foreign to us that it felt like we were in a scene from Star Trek. But after a few awkward moments of hesitation, we dug in, trying to convince ourselves that this was the way of the future. "Let’s be real," we thought. "We can always cover it with dressing, right?"

And then there were the dishes no one had the guts to try. What is that? Some kind of mystery fish? Why is there cottage cheese on the buffet? But that’s the beauty of the all-you-can-eat buffet: you don’t have to worry about trying everything. You just keep going back to the things you know. Spaghetti. Mashed potatoes. More salad (I guess).

The Ultimate Goal: Get Your Money’s Worth

The Sweden House wasn’t just a buffet. It was a challenge. A game. A test of endurance. And each time, we tried to outdo each other, seeing who could eat the most and get their money’s worth. At first, we’d try a few different dishes and pretend we liked them, but by the end of the meal, it was all about the potatoes, the bread rolls, and—surprise, surprise—the dessert table.

The goal was simple: Maximize caloric intake, minimize cost. If you left after eating just one plate, you were doing it all wrong. We had standards, people. You had to go back at least three times. Four, if you really wanted to prove your dedication. It was an art form. A marathon. We were in this for the long haul.

The Sweet Victory (And the Aftermath)

By the time we left the Sweden House (or what we now jokingly call "The House of All You Can Eat Regret"), we were stuffed. Bloated. We couldn’t move. But the pride? Oh, the pride was real. There was no better feeling than knowing you got your $2’s worth (and maybe more) out of that buffet.

The ride home was quiet, save for the occasional groan from the backseat, where one of us was probably attempting to sleep off the food coma. Farts were inevitable. And the next day, the only thing we could do was wait for next Sunday to roll around, when we’d do it all again. But no matter how many times we went, every visit to the Sweden House was unique. It was a culinary journey, a rite of passage into the world of unknown foods, and a bonding experience with friends who understood the struggle of scraping together $2.

So now, when I drive by that spot, and I see the Fuddruckers sign instead of the Sweden House, I can’t help but laugh. Who knew that such a small amount of money could bring such joy—and such stomachaches. The Sweden House wasn’t just a buffet. It was a lesson in food, friendship, and the true meaning of excess.