There is a restaurant in Texas where they bring you food until you tell them to stop. They do not tell you to stop. You tell them. I did not know a man could be trusted with such power. I confess I wept. In my country, when a host feeds you, you finish what is served. To leave food on the plate is to insult the hands that made it. This is not my opinion. This is the law of the table. So when the man said “all you can eat,” I did not hear an offer. I heard a challenge of honor. The house was offering me everything it had. To stop before the house stopped would be to call the house stingy. I would not insult the house. Plate one, fried chicken. I bowed. I finished it. Plate two, ribs. I bowed. I finished it. Plate three. Four. Five. The house did not stop. So neither did I. A waiter came and said, kindly, that I could stop whenever I wished. I told him I did not come here to wish. I came here to settle a debt of honor. He brought a manager. The manager brought water. I do not drink water during battle. By the second hour, the kitchen had slowed. I took this as weakness in the enemy and pressed forward. By the third hour I could no longer feel my face. But a samurai does not retreat simply because his face has left him. They turned off the lights and closed the restaurant around me. I remained seated. Still chewing. The last man at the table. I won. I have not eaten since. That was eleven days ago. So tell me honestly. When the sign says all you can eat, who is supposed to surrender first? Because it will not be me.