I NEVER liked my London cousin. Satwant was the only boy child of his family, ergo he was indulged. He was far too good at sport; he had a mocking laugh that resonated in my head days after I'd returned from a summer spent with him. Then there was his obsessive approach to the “free” food at a fancy new American pizza chain which, back in the 1980s, offered the unbelievable innovation of an “as much as you can eat” salad bar at its London restaurant.

There were few things Satwant liked more than the idea of something being free of charge. I’ll never forget the look of joy that contorted his face when he regaled us with stories of salad – unlimited salad; unlimited salad that cost nothing. And you got to eat it from a small wooden bowl. Mind-blowing ...

But the pizza people soon realised that free food in unlimited amounts is seldom appreciated, and set a nominal charge for the salad bar and limited the offering to one visit per meal.

This was a red rag to the bull that was my cousin. Satwant could not have been more affronted; how could they deny him free salad? Little had the pizza purveyors realised that in charging for and limiting salad they had incurred the tenacity, trickery and trigonometry of Satwant.

He swore never to return but the following week, he volted face and insisted upon a visit. Satwant was up to something ...

Not pausing to sit down or even order anything, he marched straight for the salad bar, grabbed the modest wooden bowl and proceeded, with the vision of an architect, to build a pile of salad that was going to tower over the table. He had it all worked out: an arithmetical order of items that would both maximise amounts while simultaneously providing ballast for further, less robust components. And while his focus was profoundly admirable, his unrelenting, lascivious greed was becoming a restaurant-silencing embarrassment.

Satwant’s look of triumph matched our expressions of shame as he struggled back to the table, one hand below the bowl, the other holding in place the salad skyscraper. His hands were approximately a yard apart.

I’ve never been the same since, when it comes to unlimited restaurant food.

And I am in the best company. Alan Bennett, national treasure and beloved writer, felt the same on a city break in Venice.

“The greed at breakfast in our hotel is ... dispiriting,” he wrote in his diary, “one young woman this morning with such a passion for fruit that she piles her plate with melon, pineapple, grapes and kiwi fruit and fills her pockets with tangerines to the extent that in the process nature itself is demeaned.” Another young guest was guilty of “stuffing himself with sausages before he even sits down”.

Remaining classy while trying to make the most of food you don’t pay for is a challenge. There’s something levelling about the breakfast buffet. The erstwhile elegant become frantic foragers, hoarding ham by the handful and occasionally even preparing their lunch while still sitting with their morning toast.

It’s not like I haven’t done it. Breakfast is my favourite meal. And a good, big breakfast is the ideal way to start any day. I’m reminded of celebrated nutritionist, Adelle Davis’s pithy quote: “Eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince, and dinner like a pauper.”

There is a lot to be said for that philosophy. But I think Davis, like Bennett, would be appalled at the double-handing of breakfast buffet items into already well-fed mouths.

I may be accused of snobbery, suggesting the need for a scintilla of self-control during the first meal of the day. Some might say that hotels are expensive and one needs to get as much value for money as possible.

But neither of these reasons is as compelling as the notion that we live in the consumer age, an age defined by those who can tell you the cost of everything, and the value of nothing. They may breakfast like the most glutinous kings, but when it comes to class, they are the poorest of paupers. Just like Satwant ...