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I discovered the little green-lipped, yellow-capped monsters in National City and ended up days later at an eatery outside MCAS Miramar, staring at them with the dread of an addict who must have his fix. His mussel-relaxant, you might say.

Yet mussels were the least of it: a single steaming chafing dish amongst hundreds, in what's starting to look like a new fashion for cornucopia eateries -- Chinese buffets on a grand scale, groaning with rows of Oriental and Occidental dishes that range from shrimp to noodles to oysters to roast beef to, well, on and on.

Not that I'm complaining. We're talking the answer to every food-loving guy's prayer. Limitless refills, cheap, no questions asked, no time limit. This past week I've been cruising the latest offerings.

Two things struck me about them all. First, this is not your typical Chinese takeout. These are eating palaces. Pastel halls with fruitcake carpet and brass-framed sneeze-guards around the avenues of serving tables. Like casinos, minus the cigarette haze. And, two, you gotta acknowledge what fantastic bargains these places are. It's not just the quantities. For families and others on a budget, the great thing is that there are no surprises: the price going in is the price coming out. But there's one other thing you can't help noticing -- all the Chinese staff are rake-thin. The customers, on the other hand (and I don't exclude myself), ain't. Here are five reasons why.

China Super Buffet

3007 Highland Avenue, National City




This neighborhood, just south of 30th, is down where the serious lowriders cruise. Cars ""hop"" all the way along Highland to Sweetwater Square -- when the cops aren't watching.

China Super Buffet is the big cream palace next to Peter Pan Pizza. I'm here at eight in the evening. Dinner's $8.25 versus $5.75 for lunch, but they say you get a wider choice. (They charge kids aged 2-11 ""40 cents per year"" at lunch, 60 cents at dinner.) Promised are ""over 100 items daily."" So much food, so little time. I walk in, get seated, order a coffee (endless-refill sodas and coffee cost $1.06), and survey the four double-sided chafing tables steaming with various dishes. Two more hold extras like sushi and desserts. Yellow-gloved girls rove the rows, checking, stirring, wiping, plowing up tired stews like gardeners tending flower beds.

So up you go, thinking you're destined for standard-issue orange chicken, beef broccoli, and egg rolls. But it doesn't have to be, as I soon discover. I start simple. A soup (they have five: clam chowder, miso, hot and sour, egg drop, and wonton). I pick hot and sour. With crispy noodles. It's good. Pork in there, dark, mushroomy, slightly vinegary.

I tong up some garlicky house chicken, add a few salt and pepper shrimp, breaded shrimp for contrast, a half-dozen marinated baby octopuses that look like large blushing spiders, one wonton, stuffed mushrooms, and -- aha. Now we're talking interesting. Rows of mussels in their shells, melted cheese bubbling golden on top. I make room for four.

I tell you, this is good chow. You could die of joy from the stuffed mushrooms alone. They have pork, ginger, soy (and maybe corn flour) in the stuffing, and I could see popping them till I popped, if it wasn't for the cheese mussels. Oh man, those mussels. You wrench 'em off the shell, squelch, crunch through the cheese-lava dome, and give in to the flavor flow racing down your gullet.

I can't believe how much I'm eating here. Earlier, I spotted roast beef, so now I'm headed thataway. I grab a couple of slices, take a pot of au jus and some sour cream, plus rice and a splot of cheesy spinach, and, oh yeah, a couple of crab legs. I head back to my table to begin course two.

The amazing thing is, I fit in two additional courses after that. A plate of salmon (delicious, moist, not too fishy), more of those stuffed mushrooms, and cheese mussels. Then, okay, need to clear the palate, dahling. Ergo: salad bar. I mix cold cooked shrimp, lettuce, a kind of coleslaw/sweet-mayo blend, baby corn, raisins, beetroot, and sweet-coated peanuts to crackle it up. Next, sushi bar. It's definitely a sideline affair, and I'm no sushi expert, but the rice and seaweed wraps are fresh and moist.

Course six: A plateful of green Jell-O, a chocolate cake square, peaches, tapioca pudding, a chocolate slurry, and a deep snowdrift of cream. Erp. I'm ready to be ballast for some tugboat. Only my wallet is lighter, by $12.06, including drink and tax.

I crack open my fortune cookie, chew the vanillery pastry, and read the slip of paper.

""Everyone around you is rooting for you. Don't give up!""

PANDA PARK BUFFET

"Ten's Totally Nude Show Club," says the sign across Ohio Street from where I'm standing outside Panda Park, gearing up for Day Two, Round Two. As Yogi Berra might've said, it's déjà chew all over again.

Panda Park is like China Super Buffet without the vast hall, but it's also new. ""Grand Opening,"" announces the lunch menu. I sally forth to take on the six buffet tables. Looks like a mirror of China Super Buffet's offerings. We talking franchise here? 'Course I have to start with a soup. They have wonton, hot and sour, egg flower, but I go for the seafood. It's rich and thick.

My next plateload is a shameless jumble of salt and pepper squid, salt and pepper shrimp, a clanking pile of cheese mussels (looking to repeat yesterday's epiphany), plus token dollops of boneless spare rib, sautéed mushrooms, string beans, and steamed rice -- plus a bowl of chili sauce. Again, the cheese mussels are wet, fresh, and addictive.

What I can't understand is how the Panda Parks of this world can lay out these massive quantities of food and still make a profit. I get to talking with a customer who's also in the food biz. ""Chuck."" (He asked that I not use his real name.) ""Ha!"" he says. ""Food expense is secondary. Your main expense is labor. So if you can cut down on that...""

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