A seasoned diner never opts to eat any creature hailing from below sea level. Should an entree appear twice in the same week, it has been resurrected from beyond the trash can. On the weekend, the smartest food choice is to not go to the Caf in the first place, and instead venture off campus.
It has been nearly a week since my fateful rendezvous with the Food Service Director (more on that later). Plagued by the repercussions of our showdown, I traveled recently to our local (by which I mean multiregional) steakhouse to enjoy a somewhat higher quality of food before the routine of the week crushes us under its boot heel.
To be fair, we actually meant to go on Saturday, but that day seems to have become “Support Your Local Restaurant Chain Branch” Day–relieved LaGrange-dwellers swarm to the restaurants that hug the interstate, emancipated from their oppressive kitchens. We took one look at the parking lot and turned right back. I had yogurt for dinner.
But we returned on Sunday, the parking lot half as full, but the restaurant just as busy. We spent a restless twenty minutes being stared down by babies, whose combined cacophony gave the restaurant the feel of flying coach. Meanwhile, the internal temperature of the premises echoed that of a balmy meat locker.
One of my fellow diners was taking in the scenery, his gaze fixed on a bust of one of the titular bovine. “Do you think they kill a cow for each restaurant they open?” he mused.
“I’m sure they kill a lot of cows for each restaurant they open,” I said.
Five minutes later, he provided a second observation. “Four times. He’s been four times to that table, and three times to that table.” He shook the ice cubes in his glass around uselessly. “Can we just please get some water?”
Our waiter did return, carrying both water and food. I ordered the citrus grilled chicken and mashed potatoes.
I had no complaints with the meat and potatoes. The citrus, however, must have been fished up from a formaldehyde-filled can. Someone at the table hypothesized grapefruit. Halfway through–
I’m sorry? Yeah, I order chicken at steakhouses–so what? As much as I love a good steak (if anything, the Caf has exponentially increased my affection), seventeen dollars for a whiff of steak is a lot for a soon-to-be-graduate-student-nervously-awaiting-some-form-of-financial-aid-from-the-University-of-Maryland (please, let it be this week). I believe the price of oil is lower than the price of a good steak–besides, it was probably corn-fed. (Yes, I recently saw Food, Inc. Don’t get me started. Ask me why I (would like to) buy organic.)
But I digest. Where was I? Oh, yes–halfway through my meal, I was harassed into picking another side by an apparently remorseful (or rather a contractually bound) waiter. I refused. Thirty seconds later, I regretted not getting an order of fries–
What? All right, I’ll admit it–I’m a huge fan of chicken! Oh yeah? Well, you know what? My friends both ordered salads!
