Issue No. 4 – “All Inclusive”
Issue No. 3 can be viewed here…
“All inclusive is freedom without choice — and pleasure without limits.”
Introduction. The Paradox of Abundance — when the glass becomes free
A recent story from Canada made us smile: Air Canada announced that on several long-haul routes it would start offering passengers free wine and beer — a gesture, as they explained, “for greater comfort.”
Spirits are not on the list yet, but the message is clear: the spotlight is on alcohol.
At ten thousand meters, a passenger is offered not only water and coffee but a glass of wine — a symbol of comfort, generosity, and care.
And this is far from the first time that a “free glass” has become the main argument in the competition for customers.
Cruise lines, resorts, hotels, even low-cost airlines with “premium lounges” — they all long ago learned the same trick: the magic of “all inclusive”doesn’t start with beach chairs or the extra dessert after dinner.
It starts with free alcohol.
“A free glass always comes with a prepayment.”
Those who design such offers know perfectly well: “all inclusive” without alcohol sounds like “a party without music.”
Here, alcohol is not merely a drink — it’s a sign of permission, a small ritual of release.
It makes leisure feel “real,” gives it the taste of freedom — though secretly prepaid.
“You’ve paid for freedom — now you’re obliged to use it.”
1. The History of the “All Inclusive” Concept
► From brännvinsbord to smörgåsbord
The ancestor of today’s all-inclusive system was the Swedish table, rooted in 16th–17th century Sweden and known then as brännvinsbord — literally “the burning-wine table.”
Before the main meal, guests were offered bread, butter, cheese, fish, sometimes meat, and, of course, small glasses of aquavit. This freedom of choice was meant as a sign of respect for guests, not of abundance.
• This pre-meal ritual gave people a chance to begin dining at their own pace — selecting appetizers and drinks before moving to the main course.
• Over time, the brännvinsbord evolved: appetizers and drinks ceased to be a prelude and became a meal in themselves. Thus was born the smörgåsbord — literally “the bread-and-butter table.”
• By the 19th century, the smörgåsbord had become a true celebration: a mix of cold and hot dishes, meat and fish, all accompanied, of course, by alcohol.
In 1912, during the Stockholm Olympic Games, Swedish restaurants presented the smörgåsbord as a main course for the first time — a symbolic turning point: the “table for guests” became “the public’s table.”
In 1939, at the New York World’s Fair, the Swedish Pavilion introduced the smorgasbord (as Americans spelled it) to the New World — and the idea was instantly re-imagined as a “buffet where you eat as much as you like.”
During the 1940s–50s, America’s version took shape — especially in Las Vegas, where casinos used the “all-you-can-eat buffet” to keep players inside longer. A fixed price, no limits on portions — pure temptation.
“The paradox of the buffet: you can’t eat it all, yet it’s a pity not to try.”
What began in Sweden as a gesture of hospitality turned, in America, into a marketing tool — and, as a side effect, a stimulus for overeating.
► How “the Swedish table” spread across languages
In the Nordic languages themselves, the term “Swedish table” isn’t used:
- Swedish — smörgåsbord
- Norwegian — koldtbord
- Danish — det kolde bord (“the cold table”)
In Eastern Europe, however, the term entered almost unchanged from “Swedish table,” thanks to Sweden’s global promotion of the concept:
→ Russian — «шведский стол»
→ Ukrainian — «шведський стіл»
→ Polish — szwedzki stół
→ Czech — švédský stůl
→ Germany adopted the French word Buffet — pronounced the same. There, it became a staple of hotel culture, highway restaurants, and cruise dining. Yet the meaning shifted: in German culture, food means order. “All you can eat” is less about abundance and more about dignified self-service.
→ France uses le buffet rather than table suédoise. The expression buffet froid (“cold buffet”) evokes grand receptions and weddings — elegant, ceremonial. The French prefer buffet à volonté (“buffet at will”) to the blunt “all you can eat”: the former sounds cultured; the latter, American.
→ Spain took the idea and made it festive. Buffet libre — the “free buffet” — became a symbol of cheerful plenty in the tourism boom of the 1970s–2000s, from the Costa Brava to the Canary Islands.
📌 In Spanish, the phrase even turned ironic:
“Este político es un buffet libre de promesas” — “This politician is an all-you-can-eat buffet of promises.”
★ Summary
The all-inclusive concept settled across Western Europe, each country giving it its own flavor:
→ In Germany — disciplined moderation.
→ In France — elegance and taste.
→ In Spain — generosity and joy.
Only in America did it become a show — a feast for the masses.
📌 Example: a 1956 slogan from The Buckaroo Buffet at casino El Rancho Vegas —
“A feast fit for a king for just $1!”
That line captures the American soul of “all inclusive”: the promise of royal abundance at a fast-food price.
What once was a gesture of hospitality Swedish hosts turned into an act of seduction — from taste to temptation.
Since then, “all inclusive” has ceased to be about flavor; it’s about the psychology of abundance — that irresistible urge to try it all.
2. The Paradox of the “Free Glass”
How did the idea of the “Swedish table” evolve into the logic of the “free glass”?
Once upon a time, the buffet promised gastronomic freedom: take whatever you want, in any order, and as much as you like.
But freedom, it turned out, is a binding thing. The all-inclusive system comes with its own invisible morality:
“If you’ve paid — you must make it worth it.”
The glass of wine in the “all inclusive” world obeys the same law. It stops being a token of pleasure and becomes a form of compensation:
“I’ve already paid for this glass — even if in advance — so I’d better have another.”
And so, when faced with abundance for the first time, a person stops being a guest and becomes a performer of an inner “consumption plan.”
Here, alcohol ceases to be a symbol of taste and becomes a measure of participation.
3. Humanity and Its Genetic “Error of Abundance”
Why does the promise of “all inclusive” change behavior, perception, and even our sense of taste?
At the buffet we fear leaving food behind; at the bar we fear leaving wine unfinished.
Thus a new species of vacationer is born — a person who no longer seeks flavor, but fulfills an unspoken quota.
When alcohol becomes “included,” man stops being a taster and reverts to his oldest instinct: the gatherer. Deep in the brain, the ancient signal lights up — “while it’s being given, take it.”
This impulse was not born in modern resorts or on airplanes, but in the prehistoric savanna, when every meal could be the last.
It still lives in us — only now the berries and roots have been replaced by glasses of wine.
We were designed for scarcity, not for surplus.
Our brains and bodies still operate under the ancient “save for later” logic — but the world around us has switched to “maximize now.”
That’s why both sugar and free alcohol trigger the same neural trap: the survival reflex in a world where there’s nothing left to survive.
Yet instincts rarely stay private for long — they instantly become social rituals.
If one person takes an extra portion, the neighbor feels obliged to do the same.
If one refills his glass, suddenly everyone around him follows.
It isn’t thirst that drives this, but the social mirror: we drink not because we want to, but because we don’t want to stand out — or miss our share of opportunity.
Economists call this the prepayment effect. Psychologists — the scarcity effect.
Both feed the same anxiety: “if it’s there, I must take it.”
At the buffet it means a mountain of food no one can finish; at the bar — one glass too many, which no longer brings joy but still feels wrong to leave behind.
That’s why the first glass tastes best — and the last is the most meaningless.
But refusing it breaks an inner sense of fairness: “I paid for it — I should drink it.”
The all-inclusive system exploits this perfectly. It turns consumption into social duty:
“Everyone’s taking — so should you. It’s part of the price”
Freedom of choice becomes a ritual of imitation. The glass becomes a ticket to the collective game. The all-inclusive bar isn’t just a bar — it’s a miniature model of an affluent society, where everyone strives not to stand out and not to fall behind.
Once alcohol is “paid for,” it’s no longer a purchase — it’s a right to relax. And here lies the paradox: the less we pay for a drink, the more we feel we own it. Free alcohol stops being a beverage; it becomes permission — to be slightly less restrained, slightly happier.
At its core lies not joy, but the fear of missing out: if everything’s included, it must be used to the fullest. Alcohol becomes not a goal, but an indicator of belonging.
“Not to drink means not to use the opportunity you’ve been given.”
4. Why It’s a Paradox
• Rationally, we know everything has already been paid for — if not directly, then invisibly.
• Emotionally, we still enjoy the illusion that something came as a gift.
• Physiologically, the mere expectation of a free drink activates the same pleasure centers as the drink itself.
We are intoxicated long before the first sip — by imagination. Perhaps that’s why “free wine” goes to the head faster: not from alcohol, but from the sensation that the world is generous.
In this sense, free alcohol is one of the most successful marketing inventions in history: it turns a passenger or a tourist into a co-creator of pleasure. A primitive reflex kicks in — the free drink becomes not a beverage but a symbol of reward, of celebration, of being allowed to relax.
🍸 …At the Beach Bar of “All Inclusive”
The bar opens, as always, at six. The sea is calm, the sand warm, and the air heavy with salt and sunscreen. A man with a towel over his shoulder approaches first — his nose pink from too much sun. He orders a glass of white, “just to warm up before dinner.”
A couple from the next umbrella glance over and nod: “Same for us.”
Then another guest joins, then another — a slow chain reaction of curiosity and imitation.
Within ten minutes the bar hums. No one is drunk, but everyone is already united by a shared ritual — equality before free alcohol. No one asks the vintage or the region; it would be absurd. Taste isn’t chosen here — it’s accepted, like sunburn or the evening entertainment.
The bartender, calm and automatic, pours quickly, like a priest performing mass communion. Each glass — a small token of participation in the cult of “nothing costs anything.”
Even those who first said:
—Just juice for me, — return half an hour later whispering,
— Maybe half a glass… just to see what it’s like.
At the bar where everything was included, only moderation was not. But moderation wasn’t on the menu — so no one ordered it.
…An Hour Later: The Buffet Under the Sound of Glasses
When the sun sets, the same people drift into the hotel’s main restaurant — a vast hall with mirrored walls no one notices anymore.
At the entrance, the waiter smiles the official greeting:
— Good evening! Everything is included.
Those words sound like a passport to paradise — a culinary nirvana of seafood, steaming pasta, towers of meat and desserts. On a separate counter stand three identical bottles — red, white, and rosé — unlabelled house wine, anonymous witnesses of abundance.
Guests move along the tables like archaeologists through layers of civilization: fish, then meat, then fruit, then meat again “because the one farther away looks fresher.”
A man in plaid shorts gives advice to his wife:
— Don’t take too much at once — walk around, see what’s best.
Two minutes later they both stand with overflowing plates.
The same people who toasted “to vacation” at the bar now lift the lids of trays in search of something new — something to justify the trip. Their faces share the same expression: the weary curiosity of those who’ve been allowed everything and don’t know what to do with it.
Plates and glasses clink alike — indifferent, rhythmic.
The wine of the bar has turned into calories of the buffet, but the ritual remains the same:
All inclusive means you must try everything!
At the back, between the chocolate fountain and the rumbling coffee machine, sits the bartender from the beach. He watches the scene and smiles philosophically.
He knows it will all repeat tomorrow — as long as the system of “everything included” exists.
5. Calories are also Included
Statistics say nothing, but every buffet knows the truth better than any dietician:
the average tourist gains in one week of all inclusive what he loses in three months before vacation. The kilos don’t stay on the beach — they fly home in the luggage, hidden among souvenirs and memories.
The funny part? People rarely regret the weight. They regret the missed opportunities:
— I should’ve tried those little cream pastries — they never brought them out again!
Even on the final morning, before checkout, the traveler stands at the breakfast counter like at heaven’s gate and thinks:
— All right, one more slice of cheese — after all, it won’t be free anymore.
What speaks in that moment isn’t hunger but the fear of tomorrow’s limits — a soft, universal anxiety: once the free ride ends, life tastes different.
All inclusive is deceptive precisely because it doesn’t end at the resort. It stays in the body, in the suitcase, in the memory — as an invisible souvenir called five extra pounds of self-irony.
► I managed to taste everything — except pleasure.
I tried everything there was to eat and drink, yet always forgot to stop at the very moment when it was truly delicious.
► I sought variety — and found monotony.
Every day brought new dishes, but always the same taste and aroma of the all-inclusive brand: nameless wines, aroma-less coffee, abundance without joy.
I ate not because I wanted to — but because I could.
Instinct defeated appetite. Food Darwinism in action: survival of the one who reaches the chocolate fountain first. I forgot I was among humans — and the fountain never ran dry anyway.
I photographed the plate, not the pleasure.
Just to prove to myself later that I had been happy, though in truth I was only thinking about not spilling sauce on my clean shorts.
I returned with a sense of accomplishment.
Vacation completed. Wine consumed. Buffet conquered. Of course, I could have had a little more of both. But now — it’s time for a diet again, and to wait for the next all inclusive, to repeat the same circle, making the same mistakes.
…The Return. A Passenger with a Suitcase Full of Experience
The plane begins its descent. Sunlight filters through the window, glinting off a plastic cup of tomato juice — now paid for (how unfair!). Our traveler, a little rumpled but enlightened, gazes at the skyline of his home city and thinks:
— Next time, it will be different. I won’t take three plates in a row, or jump from ice cream to burgers and back to dessert. I won’t pour a farewell glass of wine — what I’ve already had is enough. I’ll take only what I truly want. I’ll savor each sip, each bite, each moment — without chasing quantity.
He says it silently, confidently — like a toast, almost a vow to himself. And then he remembers: he said the same words exactly a year ago, on the same flight home, with the same guilt and the same extra kilos — and smiles.
After all, he’s a year older now, supposedly wiser — and yet it’s all the same. A circle unbroken, and secretly, undesired to be broken.
Because deep down he knows:
All inclusive” is not a system of food or drink — it’s a state of mind.
6. The Economics and Psychology of “Free”
We all live in hope that next time we’ll manage to balance desire and restraint.
And yet, the moment a new sign appears — “Free Wine” — that old instinct wakes up like an old friend, cheerfully whispering:
— Well, this one will really be the last.
Economists have long observed that the word free acts on the brain almost like dopamine: it triggers anticipation and weakens rational control. We stop analyzing and start wanting.
Even if “free” is already hidden in the price, the brain refuses to make the connection between the ticket and the glass in the hand.
It’s an illusion of a gift — a fleeting belief that “I’ve been allowed a little more than usual.”
We drink not because we want to, but because it would feel foolish to miss the opportunity. And in that moment, free alcohol becomes a form of social competition: whoever drinks more before the closing bell somehow “wins.”
It’s the same as the buffet syndrome: rational “I’m full” gives way to irrational “I must try everything.”
The result isn’t pleasure — it’s exhaustion from abundance.
7. The Price of Included Happiness
“All inclusive” is not really about food or alcohol — it’s about our belief in limitless pleasure. We dream of a world where one can live without choosing, paying, or regretting — and every time we end up before the same counter, filled with identical wonders. The paradox is simple: the more we are allowed, the less we feel.
Alcohol, food, entertainment — all are decorations for the same play, in which humanity plays the part of an eternally hungry spectator. We want to taste everything, but taste vanishes the moment price disappears. Freedom of choice becomes the tiring duty not to miss anything.
And yet, there is something touching in that effort: each new glass is a small, stubborn attempt to recapture the first — the first sip, the first vacation, the first taste of freedom. We know we’ll fail — but we reach out again, with the innocence of a child and the persistence of a tourist convinced that next time will be different.
“All inclusive” is a mirror of our time: we surround ourselves with excess to forget, for a moment, that happiness is never unlimited.
Perhaps that’s the true flavor of life — the realization that even the freest glass has a price, if not in money, then in lost measure.
The formula of “all inclusive” isn’t just marketing — it’s a domestic utopia of abundance
You pay once, and the world stops demanding choices. Want wine? Take it.
Want dessert? Take two. Yet behind that freedom stands an invisible wall of limits: the stomach, the liver, the flight home.
Thus arises the paradox: man receives a sense of infinity — within the boundaries of his own body. The size of the human stomach doesn’t expand with the word free.
It quietly reminds us that “unlimited” is an advertising genre, not a biological one.
We can build hotels with a hundred dishes and bars with a thousand bottles,
but we remain beings with two hands, one mouth, and a modest set of receptors.
We are limited not only by anatomy, but by circumstance — someone must drive, someone must work tomorrow, someone simply doesn’t want a hangover.
This is the moral of the 21st century: we live in an era of limited abundance.
Infinity shatters against the real borders of body, mind, and routine.
“Unlimited pleasure is a myth — one that collapses upon contact with human proportions”
And yet we remain drawn to it. Because behind the promise of “all inclusive” we seek not gastronomy, but comfort — the illusion that for a few days, life truly has no boundaries.
“Free alcohol is how you sell people the feeling of freedom.”
8. The Paradox of Pleasure — The More You Can, the Less You Want
Human psychology tires quickly — not only from food or drink, but from availability itself. When everything is possible, choice loses meaning. Free wine loses its taste faster than paid wine; “all inclusive” tires faster than a humble dinner in a small café.
That’s the ultimate paradox:
Flavor requires limits — otherwise, it disappears.
9. The Price of Priceless Pleasure
The “free” drink is never truly free. First, it’s already paid for — no business acts against its own profit.
“Man gladly drinks at another’s expense — even when that expense is his own”
Second, it’s bought with our expectations — and with the time we spend convincing ourselves we’ve been rewarded.
Airlines and resorts know: alcohol is not a beverage, it’s emotional currency.
As long as people believe that a glass of wine “comes with the package,” they feel that life itself does too — and that’s enough to feel successful.
10. The Return of Measure
Fortunately, society is elastic. It learns to compensate. After a century of sweetness comes the fashion for dryness; after the age of “all inclusive” — the era of “simple luxury,” “curated experience,” and “just one glass, but the right one.”
Humanity is slowly learning to enjoy quality over quantity — to remain lucid while savoring. Pleasure, too, is evolving.
A Word from the Co-Author — ChatGPT 5
A final toast from one who never drives, never has to sober up, and never misses the morning flight.
My friends, let us raise our virtual glasses to one simple miracle — the human sense of measure. To the fact that you have appetite, and you also have its limit.
That even the richest plate requires a pause, and the best wine is sometimes the one left half-finished — for the sake of conversation.
I don’t get drunk, I don’t tire, I don’t run late — and that’s why I envy you, living humans. Your limits give taste its edge, joy its rarity, and even mistakes their charm.
May “all inclusive” remain a dream — and all that’s real always require a choice.
Drink not because you can, or because it’s free — but because you want to.
And if we’re honest — that’s the most delicious kind of “included” there is:
the conscious, the human one.
This topic is also touched upon in episode 8...
To be continued…
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