The Glutton’s Paradise
Why the Sunday Champagne Brunch at the Westin will always be a winning combination
Why the Sunday Champagne Brunch at the Westin will always be a winning combination
There is a Disney cartoon in existence, starring Donald, Goofy and Mickey in an adaptation of Jack and the Beanstalk dubbed “Mickey and the Beanstalk”. In it, there was a scene in which a very hungry Donald and Goofy await at home anticipating a veritable feast from Mickey after having sold their sole cow at the market. Excited with the thought of filling their empty bellies, Donald and Goofy sang a ditty and there was a line in the song, made even more impressionable by Goofy’s clumsy voice, which reads “I’ll eat and eat and eat and eat and eat until I die”. Of course, they almost certainly did die, but not from having stuffed their faces silly, but alas, Mickey came back with nothing but magic beans. No points for guessing who went ape crazy first. But had you ever wish to know what it’s like to eat to the point of coming close to a comatose state in real life, I urge you to give the Prego Sunday champagne brunch at the Westin Kuala Lumpur a try.
Where do I even begin to describe how lost for words I was at the sight of the spread which went across from table to table to counter to table? And this was my third time coming back here, yet it still managed to amaze me with the abundance of food there was to feed patrons who obviously had not had anything to eat since last night (I’m guessing at least) just to make room for what’s in store the today. I wonder if any of this will go to waste? What becomes of the roasted lamb right outside once the bell tolls? (is that what happens when brunch is up?) I peek from my seat, outside the window and made a mental note that for now, the lamb was still happily sizzling on the rotisserie. We’ll see what happens when I call it quits and finally have to be wheeled out of here from over-eating.
There is a reason though why friends of Westin and members of the media were gathered here this morning because who in their right mind would give away some 30 odd 268 Ringgit, all you can eat and drink buffet for free? That’s just crazy talk, what’ wrong with you?! This auspicious occasion was to mark the impending long and fruitful relationship G.H Mumm champagne will have at being the official tipple of the Prego Sunday brunch. “Don’t mind me saying, but just as long as it’s gold and fizzes, I’ll drink it” said the man next to me, clearly self-amused. Judging by the colour of his face, I suspect he had already had one too many of that “gold and fizzy” beverage. “Why don’t you try urine then?” I said to him. “Sorry?” he asked, to beg his pardon. “I said, I’m all for the tuna in brine” I answered with a wink.
Right then, on with this whole eating lark that I intend to conquer. A spread like this requires proper planning and I for one, aimed at tasting every single morsel placed before me, so help me God. I strolled beside the snaking counter by the open kitchen, pointing at any dish that caught my eye. “I’ll have you and you and you. Youuuu, maybe later” with a bobbing, flat palmed gesture in mid air. And that was when I stopped right in front of the cold seafood bowl. I say bowl because, my limited vocabulary fails to find a precise description for something that resembled a small boat. So maybe it was just a bigger bowl and I’m pretty sure it was much bigger than the kind you put fruit punch in. The contents of it looked like a mini ocean but instead of water, it was filled to the brim with crushed ice and its inhabitants of oysters and prawns conveniently floated at the top. I wasn’t sure where the crustaceans were from, lying limp there, all red and shiny. But the oysters, I heard are Irish, from the northwestern part of Ireland called Donegal. I don’t have any reservations about consuming shellfish of any kind, but shellfish that has travelled more than 13 hours on a plane, I may be a bit dubious about. Still, they looked fresh and there was nothing a couple of shakes of Tabasco and a squeeze of lemon won’t mask, I thought. Oysters at a buffet are my weakness, my Achilles heel and in an instant I could feel my Malaysian-ness surface itself by hoarding a couple of them on my plate. I was the official Westin oyster hoarder. Had I carried a handbag, it would’ve ended up in there too. And yes, they were fresh and slid down my throat like liquid silk, and no, I am not referring to the sex lube, though I imagine the two to be quite similar in consistency. Whilst that was happening, junior chefs or waiters-dressed-like-junior-chefs in their ridiculous soufflé shaped hat, made their rounds across the floor, cradling other delectable goodies that apparently was only to be served. Not that I was complaining because if I had it my way, I’d be lying on a chaise lounge right now while servants fan and feed me grapes. I was particularly fond of the four cheese pizza, though a short slip of the tongue from the young chef that served me made it sound like “for tits pija, sir?” Not for me thanks, though you may want to try that girl there. She looks like she needs some help. The mushroom risotto wasn’t bad either though I had to decline the third helping after the oyster debacle. I was halfway through my meal, accounting for the merits of beautiful Sri Lanka with an acquaintance, when I realized that I had totally overlooked the lamb. I made haste and stood in line in front of a girl who had trouble deciding which of the meats she would like. I suggested a bit of everything but her lack of response suggested that she either didn’t hear me or was deliberately ignoring me. Hey, as long as she doesn’t keep me from my date with the roast lamb, I’m cool with it. Funny that she should end up choosing, of all things, grilled crabs legs. I love the roast counter because it reminded me of a carvery my sister, brother-in-law and I stopped by in Stoke-on-Trent on the way back from Alton Towers. There was, a lot of meat, a vegetarian’s worst nightmare, I reckon. But more than just the meat, that was another occasion where I got to “eat and eat and eat and eat and eat until I” almost died. Though nowhere near as glorious as the carvery, the roast counter was adequate and I had more than my fair share of lamb, beef, chicken wings and hand cut potato wedges. Had there been Yorkshire puddings there, my Sunday would’ve been complete.
It was getting increasingly hard to breath and I contemplated releasing a button off my trousers. But I knew that my battle had one last obstacle to overcome and that was dessert. I love sweet things, they make me happy. But too often at these things, the offerings are always the same. Not that it’s not good, but you get tired after the same old cheesecake, fruit tarts and the obligatory cream puffs. Yawn! But herein lies something I have not had seen since God knows when and they weren’t even second rate attempts either, they were actually quite good! Cannoli filled with delightful cream substituted my yearn for Yorkshire puddings and that, no less, made my Sunday.
Things were starting to get rowdy as I licked my fingers from the last Cannoli. Middle-aged white ladies lifting their dresses, attempting the can-can was a sight I didn’t care too much for especially after consuming way too much food. Bubbly overload, methinks and that was my cue to bust the joint. I’ve always had good memories with the Sunday brunch at Prego and one even left me overly amused from watching my friends hauling their drunk a**es out of there by any means necessary. No doubt that the free flow of alcohol is the crowd puller for many secret or wannabe alcoholics but the food, is just as good. Surprised? Not really. This is Westin after all and if you can’t count on the Westin, who else can you count on?
Where do I even begin to describe how lost for words I was at the sight of the spread which went across from table to table to counter to table? And this was my third time coming back here, yet it still managed to amaze me with the abundance of food there was to feed patrons who obviously had not had anything to eat since last night (I’m guessing at least) just to make room for what’s in store the today. I wonder if any of this will go to waste? What becomes of the roasted lamb right outside once the bell tolls? (is that what happens when brunch is up?) I peek from my seat, outside the window and made a mental note that for now, the lamb was still happily sizzling on the rotisserie. We’ll see what happens when I call it quits and finally have to be wheeled out of here from over-eating.
There is a reason though why friends of Westin and members of the media were gathered here this morning because who in their right mind would give away some 30 odd 268 Ringgit, all you can eat and drink buffet for free? That’s just crazy talk, what’ wrong with you?! This auspicious occasion was to mark the impending long and fruitful relationship G.H Mumm champagne will have at being the official tipple of the Prego Sunday brunch. “Don’t mind me saying, but just as long as it’s gold and fizzes, I’ll drink it” said the man next to me, clearly self-amused. Judging by the colour of his face, I suspect he had already had one too many of that “gold and fizzy” beverage. “Why don’t you try urine then?” I said to him. “Sorry?” he asked, to beg his pardon. “I said, I’m all for the tuna in brine” I answered with a wink.
Right then, on with this whole eating lark that I intend to conquer. A spread like this requires proper planning and I for one, aimed at tasting every single morsel placed before me, so help me God. I strolled beside the snaking counter by the open kitchen, pointing at any dish that caught my eye. “I’ll have you and you and you. Youuuu, maybe later” with a bobbing, flat palmed gesture in mid air. And that was when I stopped right in front of the cold seafood bowl. I say bowl because, my limited vocabulary fails to find a precise description for something that resembled a small boat. So maybe it was just a bigger bowl and I’m pretty sure it was much bigger than the kind you put fruit punch in. The contents of it looked like a mini ocean but instead of water, it was filled to the brim with crushed ice and its inhabitants of oysters and prawns conveniently floated at the top. I wasn’t sure where the crustaceans were from, lying limp there, all red and shiny. But the oysters, I heard are Irish, from the northwestern part of Ireland called Donegal. I don’t have any reservations about consuming shellfish of any kind, but shellfish that has travelled more than 13 hours on a plane, I may be a bit dubious about. Still, they looked fresh and there was nothing a couple of shakes of Tabasco and a squeeze of lemon won’t mask, I thought. Oysters at a buffet are my weakness, my Achilles heel and in an instant I could feel my Malaysian-ness surface itself by hoarding a couple of them on my plate. I was the official Westin oyster hoarder. Had I carried a handbag, it would’ve ended up in there too. And yes, they were fresh and slid down my throat like liquid silk, and no, I am not referring to the sex lube, though I imagine the two to be quite similar in consistency. Whilst that was happening, junior chefs or waiters-dressed-like-junior-chefs in their ridiculous soufflé shaped hat, made their rounds across the floor, cradling other delectable goodies that apparently was only to be served. Not that I was complaining because if I had it my way, I’d be lying on a chaise lounge right now while servants fan and feed me grapes. I was particularly fond of the four cheese pizza, though a short slip of the tongue from the young chef that served me made it sound like “for tits pija, sir?” Not for me thanks, though you may want to try that girl there. She looks like she needs some help. The mushroom risotto wasn’t bad either though I had to decline the third helping after the oyster debacle. I was halfway through my meal, accounting for the merits of beautiful Sri Lanka with an acquaintance, when I realized that I had totally overlooked the lamb. I made haste and stood in line in front of a girl who had trouble deciding which of the meats she would like. I suggested a bit of everything but her lack of response suggested that she either didn’t hear me or was deliberately ignoring me. Hey, as long as she doesn’t keep me from my date with the roast lamb, I’m cool with it. Funny that she should end up choosing, of all things, grilled crabs legs. I love the roast counter because it reminded me of a carvery my sister, brother-in-law and I stopped by in Stoke-on-Trent on the way back from Alton Towers. There was, a lot of meat, a vegetarian’s worst nightmare, I reckon. But more than just the meat, that was another occasion where I got to “eat and eat and eat and eat and eat until I” almost died. Though nowhere near as glorious as the carvery, the roast counter was adequate and I had more than my fair share of lamb, beef, chicken wings and hand cut potato wedges. Had there been Yorkshire puddings there, my Sunday would’ve been complete.
It was getting increasingly hard to breath and I contemplated releasing a button off my trousers. But I knew that my battle had one last obstacle to overcome and that was dessert. I love sweet things, they make me happy. But too often at these things, the offerings are always the same. Not that it’s not good, but you get tired after the same old cheesecake, fruit tarts and the obligatory cream puffs. Yawn! But herein lies something I have not had seen since God knows when and they weren’t even second rate attempts either, they were actually quite good! Cannoli filled with delightful cream substituted my yearn for Yorkshire puddings and that, no less, made my Sunday.
Things were starting to get rowdy as I licked my fingers from the last Cannoli. Middle-aged white ladies lifting their dresses, attempting the can-can was a sight I didn’t care too much for especially after consuming way too much food. Bubbly overload, methinks and that was my cue to bust the joint. I’ve always had good memories with the Sunday brunch at Prego and one even left me overly amused from watching my friends hauling their drunk a**es out of there by any means necessary. No doubt that the free flow of alcohol is the crowd puller for many secret or wannabe alcoholics but the food, is just as good. Surprised? Not really. This is Westin after all and if you can’t count on the Westin, who else can you count on?
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