The Coral Harbor Feast is not for the faint of heart or the tight of belt. It is a buffet-style massacre of the senses. When they say «Harbor,» they mean they have emptied an entire harbor into the kitchen. There are piles of shrimp so high they require their own air traffic control. There are towers of crab legs that look like they could come to life and reclaim their territory at any moment. I walked in a man and left as a giant, walking crab-cake.

To survive the Harbor Feast, you need a plan. You can’t just go in swinging. I saw a man go straight for the mashed potatoes. Rookie mistake. You have to pace yourself. You start with the light shellfish, move into the heavy crustaceans, and then—and only then—do you tackle the «Land» section. The Bistro 555 staff watches you like referees. I’m convinced there’s a scout in the corner taking notes on who has the best «plate-stacking» technique. I managed to fit four lobsters on a single plate by using a baguette as a structural support beam.

Yes, there is a butter fountain. It’s exactly like a chocolate fountain, but for people who have given up on their cardiovascular health. I saw someone try to put a strawberry under it. That person was escorted out (rightfully so). The butter fountain is for dipping things that once swam. It is the golden heart of the Coral Harbor Feast, and it is both majestic and terrifying. It’s the kind of thing that makes you feel like a Roman emperor right before the fall of the empire.

Let’s have a chat: Is the «Feast» a celebration of abundance or a monument to human greed? There’s something inherently hilarious about a hundred people in a nice restaurant, wearing bibs, frantically cracking open shells as if they’re looking for a hidden Bistro 555 map to Atlantis. Does the quality of food suffer when it’s produced in such massive quantities? Or does the sheer joy of seeing a literal mountain of shrimp override our ability to taste?