A little while back (in the grand scope of time), I was bored, so I started a blog. In this blog, I consistently picked on a target of populist criticism: the Caf. After a period of non-boredom, I eventually became bored once again, which led to a fresh round of assailments. Eventually, the barrage become too intense to handle, and a temporary cease-fire was called. We scheduled a meeting. The following is a rendition of that meeting:

I pause, my pen hovering above the page. “Thank you for doing this,” I say, raising my gaze from my notes.

She surveys me from across the table, sizing me up. “My pleasure,” the voice says, but the body is shut off, protective. “I’m glad we organized this.”

And I think about Salisbury steak. I think about seafood casserole. I think about hot dog buns. I click my pen. Then I click it again. I invent a fake header and put it down on the paper, awarding myself with a break from her scrutiny.

“I’ve visited your Web site,” she says, sliding a manilla folder to rest between us. “You’re a very… witty writer.” She opens the folder, revealing a stack of printouts glowing with fluorescent highlighter ink. Multicolored sticky notes poke out like bookmarks.

“Ah. Well,” I say, an awkward heat creeping up my neck. “You know, it was never my intention to be mean. The way I like to think of the stuff I write–fundamentally, it’s truth. Wrapped in satire.” Feeling particularly smug, I add, “Smothered in sausage gravy.”

She, the Ice Queen, remains unblinking. My eyes water on her behalf.

“But I will say this,” I say. I add an extended index finger for effect. “Before I came here today, I received a passionate plea from a fellow student who’s considering getting a feeding tube implanted over eating in the Caf–that’s what we’re talking about here.”

“I understand this line of reasoning. Some of our items are optimized for ingestion–as you well know.”

My index finger slumps to the table. “No, that’s not the point! She–uh, or he–it could be a he–is talking about the quality of the food. The nutrition. You know.”

The response comes almost instantly. “Our goal is to make your dining experience the best it can be by providing good, nutritious food in a relaxed atmosphere.”

“Yeah, okay, but you’re not,” I say.

“We also strive hard to deliver superior service each day.”

“Let’s talk about something else.” I glance at my notes as though checking for a talking point. “Actually, let me get a glass of water first.”

Behind the scenes, the intermission takes a detour when I notice the store-brand knockoff of my favorite peanut butter-infused cereal. As I return to the table, I notice two Caf drones, their faces ashen and dull, flanking my opponent. “Sorry about that,” I say. I smile wanly, my gaze flashing between her and her reinforcements. Noticing the logo on their uniforms, I go on the offensive: “You know, let’s talk about Aramark.” I lean forward in what I hope is an aggressive move. “A lot of people are under the impression that the Caf took a hit after Aramark came into the picture.”

The reaction is instant–finally, a direct hit; a left hook! Eyes shut, she places a hand on the table, her head twisting away as though I had dealt her a grievous personal insult. The drones tense–they share a mortified glance!

Under the table, I clench a hand into a fist. “That’s what this is about! Tell me about–”

“How–do you know–about Aramark?” Her voice issues from some guttural depth, the glare snapping back like a rubber band.

I blink at her. “How do I know? Why wouldn’t I know?”

“Who told you of Aramark? Who gave you access to such information?”

The bodyguards flex threateningly.

I buy myself some time with a spoonful of cereal, my jaws and mind working furiously. My gaze falls on the spoon.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Still chewing, I look wildly about the room. It is silent. It is clean. It is open before five in the afternoon. The cereal has turned to mush in my mouth. I ask myself a question that causes my stomach to tie itself in knots. Then I ask the same question out loud: “Where… are we right now?”

For a moment, she appears lost in thought. Then, consulting her notes, she gazes upon me with a certain profundity. “Your knowledge of Aramark is… perplexing, and yet… Yes, you must know.”

The drones return to shifting uncomfortably.

“Leave us,” she commands.

We are alone in the Caf.

“This is not how I want things to be,” she says, gesturing at our surroundings. “In fact, this is not how it ought to be. You see, the Aramark is the idyllic Caf homeworld you have referred to in the past as the… yes, the Shadow Caf. Its protrusion into your world has been tainted by rumors and slander, creating a twisted mirror image. It exists because you allow it.”

After ten breathless seconds, I scoop my jaw from the table. “Exists because you allow it–what do you mean?”

She extracts a yellow piece of paper from her folder. “Do you recognize this?”

I blink. “Yeah, that’s a–that’s one of those comment cards. People use them for anonymous hate mail.”

She places the golden slip between us. “While I do not know of these… comment cards of which you speak, these constructs serve as monitoring drones between your world–” she slides the comment card toward me “–and ours.”  “The connecting gateway exists by the central desk.”

“The comment box?” I exclaim, my voice rising to an incredulous squeak. “A gateway…? Between worlds…?”

“As they pass through the gateway and into Aramark, the drones transmit their data. Negative readings are discarded into your world, upsetting the balance. The overwhelming influx of such readings has led to the gradual creation of Aramark’s sinister opposite–the Caf you have experienced on a daily basis.”

The concepts slowly connecting in my mind, I return to the offensive: “So you’re saying that the only way to restore the Caf–my Caf–to Aramark is by praising the food?”

“Not praise. Constructive criticism. An indication of preference from time to time. These will all add to Aramark’s eventual unification.”

“And the split exists because I allow it to…” I echo, the epiphany surging through me like a bad case of spontaneous combustion. “Everything I’ve ever written about the Caf. Every snarky comment. Every exaggerated critique.”

“Indeed.”

“But they weren’t comment cards! That was just a writing exercise I turned into a blog!”

“You too played your part. Observe your response to last year’s Breakfast at Night: ‘Breakfast at Night is a serious cop-out. I come to dinner for dinner.’” She reads the words with a cold resignation.

“That was… You don’t know I wrote that,” I say defensively.

“We have a team of handwriting analysts working closely with your faculty. For the record, all your professors know how you have responded to your course evaluations, thanks to your compliant habit of filling in the ‘Male,’ ‘Major/Minor Requirement,’ and ‘Equally Well in English and Another Language’ bubbles.” She closes the folder in a satisfied sort of way. “Some of them are not amused.”

My face burning, I revert back to the previous topic. “I’m graduating. I’m going to stop writing about the Caf.”

“But the others won’t.”

“What if I told them? What if I go back and tell them what to do before I’m done with college? I could make it my last entry, I guess.”

She pauses. “Perhaps a viable strategy.”

“Then we have reached an agreement.”

We rise from the table and shake hands. “Is it really that easy?” I ask. “Constructive criticism? A friendly pointer along the way?”

“The easy choice has already been made. You have experienced the results yourself.”

“Very deep,” I say. “Very Dumbledoresque.”

“Thank you for your time.”

“Yeah, you too,” I say slightly dazedly. I move around the table and take the first steps toward the exit. As I draw closer, the room appears to grow hazy–tables blur at the edges, and the corners fade into nothingness. “I can never come back, can I?” I call over my shoulder.

She has been watching my departure. “Haven’t you suffered enough already?” she asks, the voice sounding as though issuing from the bottom of a well.

Once outside, I turn to the Caf doors and test each handle. Locked. I check my watch. 4:46.

“Open from seven to seven my ass,” a would-be diner grumbles from the Caf steps. “Maybe in a different world.”

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!

Since being alerted to my impending confrontation with the Food Service Director, I have taken certain steps (breathing exercises, kickboxing, light arithmetic) in order to better prepare myself for what I am sure will a civil exchange of opposing beliefs. So far, my research shows an alarming trend: the situation is much worse than previously anticipated.

I was throwing some figures around in my mind the other day–I know, who could have imagined that I would ever regress to using math? It truly is amazing what four day weekends can do to a man–when I stumbled upon a rather chilling (if not blood-boiling) discovery.

For the past three and a half years, I have begrudgingly accepted (something that I appear to do a lot when it comes to the Caf) the fact that, like it or not, the Caf is actually cheaper than its ubiquitous alternatives. As often happens when I deal with math, I was not simply wrong–I was perfectly and fantastically incorrect.

Every semester, I shell out $1,778 in order to be allowed into the Caf ten times per week. Still with me? Good. Now, as far as I can tell, this current semester consists of fifteen weeks–sixteen, if you include Spring Break. Am I still making sense? By combining these numbers in some inexplicable way (I think the term is called division), I am told that I am spending somewhere in the vicinity of $118.50 in the Caf per week.

We are headed toward the first of at least two shocking conclusions. I hope that you are still following me. By Law, I can only eat ten meals in the Caf per week, averaging out to $11.85 per meal. (In more colloquial terms, the number translates to roughly the same amount of soft tacos.)

But allow me to take this thread another step. Last week, I did not go to the Caf at all. I lived a blissful experience as someone responsible for maintaining their own basic processes. Such behavior, however, effectively increases the cost of every meal thereafter. Since there are now fourteen weeks left in the semester, every meal suddenly averages out at $12.70. And that busy week where you only made it to the Caf twice? Take heart in the fact that each meal cost about sixty dollars.

It is this average that throws the issue of pricing completely off-balance. A student on the 10-Meal Plan, as previously stated, pays–on average–$11.85 per meal; a student on the 15-Meal Plan, $8.29 per meal; and a student on the Unlimited Plan (assuming that they eat twenty-one Caf meals in a week), $6.28 per meal. Since this spread of five dollars exists, how much is a meal in the Caf actually worth? Is there a rebate for buying meals in bulk? And are the meal plans actually enforced?

The simplest method to stop worrying about obscure facts such as the economical impact of one missed meal is simply to partake in ten, fifteen, or twenty-one Caf meals per week. Then again, who would want that? I would like to think that cooking and eating should not be chores, but activities to look forward to. Another solution is to quit the Caf altogether and buy groceries–that is, if the College actually gave its students the option of opting out.

I want to believe that the College is trying to protect the students by making sure that there is, at the very least, a last resort in the Caf. But if the meal plans are mandatory, why bother giving upperclassmen full kitchens? In my opinion, being able to attempt independence is one of the cornerstones of the college experience. I am twenty-two years old, and if I can (finally) have a beer, let me cook–or buy–my own food. If I am going to be bogged down with student loans for the rest of my life, let me set my own spending parameters. Let me choose choice.

Although back-to-back Caf dinners have been somewhat of a rarity lately, I can only make so many dishes out of carrots, garlic, and tomato paste. Besides, when the Caf is seemingly trying to make a mockery of itself, all I need to do is give them a little push in the right direction. Don’t mind if I do.

I had several reasons for going to dinner in the Caf tonight: one, I wanted to see if the nutritional information posters had been fixed; two, Wednesdays typically rank as a “Meh” on the Caf-o-meter; and three, because–damnit–I was hungry. According to the nutritional information posters, however, I stuff myself on chicken soup and not gain an ounce:

Which leads me to wonder–why? Why even put the signs up when they are blank? Who in their right mind would go through the trouble of looking up the nutritional information for the chicken soup–update their Adobe Reader, wrangle with the PDF settings, win the paper feeder tug-of-war with the printer–only to print out a piece of paper that contains no useful information? I would keep exploring the topic, but I fear that my mind would literally (yes, literally) implode if I considered the mind-numbing implications of this completely useless task.

So I won’t. Instead, here’s what’s for dinner:

One of my weaknesses–and I am not sure if I should be revealing it online (I may be under surveillance, after all)–is Italian food. Therefore, I was pleased to find this new creation:

Garlic bread!

Wait. Enhance.

Hot dog bun? According to the Caf, this inspired creation has been named “Bread Stick.” I made a point yesterday about taking away diners’ options and serving them right back to them, but this culinary circus trick… I am currently covering my face with my palm. Similarly, observe tonight’s chicken taco dish:

Unless I am mistaken, the taco contains the same chicken used for the sandwich bar’s chicken salad–which explains why there was no chicken salad.

I am not one to respond to unfounded accusations, but after trying to serve me garlic-infused hot dog buns, I feel no remorse; rumor has it that the milk in the Caf comes from a powder. Yeah. Let’s spread that around.

Even though February has been my most active month since the inception of There’s Always Cereal! (which now features an exclamation point, in case you haven’t noticed), I recently came to a rather embarrassing realization. For while I have been exceedingly vocal of my opposition to the Caf, I have not set foot in the place in over a week.

I was spurned into action on Monday afternoon when I received a text from a much more frequent Caf-goer about overhearing a fellow patron describing a corn side dish as “embodying the essence of flambeed rectum [edited for content],” followed by a general request for a flowery elaboration by yours truly. Although I chose not to sample the dish in question (I hardly get dressed on Monday, Wednesday, or Fridays, anyway), the call did at least inspire me to seek out the Caf again.

When I entered the Caf for dinner on Tuesday night, I was treated as somewhat of a sasquatchian event. To my surprise, everyone seemed to be enjoying grilled cheese–except for the person who I thought would be beside herself about this main course. “There’s meat!” she snarled. “The only thing I eat between two slices of bread is cheese!” (For the sake of making a point: had the main course of the night actually been grilled cheese, I would have launched myself into a tirade of legendary proportions.)

Behind the scenes, I was greeted to a somewhat puzzling sight. The Caf was serving up chicken wings (not pictured) and what appeared to be bean-stuffed green pepper halves (also not pictured), while the line for the aforementioned grilled cheese (cheeses?) stretched long. I can only assume that tonight’s selections tie in with the removal of the toaster oven; instead of grilled cheese always being an option, the Caf can now serve grilled cheese and call it variety. Well played, Caf.

On a positive note, the Caf now proudly displays nutritional information, as seen below:

Am I satisfied? Far from it. First of all, these posters fail to list the actual ingredients that go into making the dish–for all I know, my money could be going to a squad of twenty people furiously opening cans of Campbell’s Soup (ah, who am I kidding–cans of Great Value soup).

Secondly, the posters include an “Also Featured” section that simply lists the names of dishes like a gaggle of recurring co-stars. Co-stars that, if I might add, probably contain ridiculous amounts of sodium.

Finally, the posters list the nutritional information for the dishes served for lunch.

Instead of pizza, cans of pizza sauce were on display.

Unless my Google-fu is failing me, this specific brand of pizza sauce does not exist. In other words, the cans are merely props, and in light of this random Tuesday night in the Caf, that makes perfect sense.

In the midst of all the goings on in the Caf, it can sometimes be easy to overlook its most important aspect–the diners. In this segment, I sit down with a freshman (subject to change) for fifteen minutes. Or to ask fifteen questions. Whichever.

“I don’t normally go to the back [of the Caf] because I’m really picky, so I don’t eat any of those things.”

By those things, the inaugural subject of this new segment is referring to the collected works of the Caf. Emily “I-Go-By-Both-Names” Claire, self-described as set in her ways, has yet to lower her standards to Caf-appropriate levels. And while most students break by the beginning of their sophomore year, this one may very well remain as stubborn as the day she set foot on campus; when asked if the Caf has served up any of her favorites so far, she answers with a defiant “No.”

Although she struggles under the “Fifteen” meal plan (also known as the Venti), Emily Claire admits to only going to lunch and dinner–occasionally. “I go so I can see people,” she says. “Most people go to the Caf because they’re on a meal plan, so if I want to see people, I have to go to the Caf.”

When it comes to food, Emily Claire lists cheese and cheese-related items as her go-to meals, and fondly recites a case where a fellow diner asked for a quesadilla–and got one–as an example of Caf exceptionalism. Not that the Caf is playing to her taste, though. “I used to make my own grilled cheese, but then they took the George Foreman grill away,” she laments. “I was very upset.”

Still, Emily Claire–or rather, her family–has a vested interest in the Caf; Flowers Foods, her father’s employer, also happens to be its bread supplier. Unfortunately, the Caf’s reliance on the Nature’s Own brand represents a missed opportunity–Emily Claire is a Sunbeam kind of girl.

Though she has several major qualms with the Caf, Emily Claire seems to have lapsed into a resignation that is fueled by her own pickiness. She responds to questions about how to improve the Caf with a shrug, and touches on extended mealtimes as an afterthought. In a perfect world, students would be reimbursed for however many meals they choose not to go to the Caf for, and the college would expand the newly implemented “Meal Swap” system to include off-campus restaurants.

Emily Claire’s thoughts are innovative indeed, but they ring hollow in the mind of a Caf veteran. Still, some of her wishes may possibly be fulfilled–the wish for more cereal in flake form, for example. That, after all, is what we are all about in this blog.

We are to meet. Though no final date has been set, I want to make sure that I am prepared. So I ask you–what would you like to see changed about the Caf?

I know that we have tried to change things before, only to have the situation revert back to its original state. That time was our Episode IV; we thought that we had destroyed the Death Star by shooting proton torpedoes down an exhaust shaft. We wheeled our X-wings around and regrouped at Hoth, lying low to avoid Empire detection. When we returned to attack in Episode VI, we thought the Death Star was far from completion–instead, we walked into a trap. The only way to destroy the Death Star once and for all is to travel down the exhaust shaft itself and destroy the station’s power core.

My point–I believe that I had one–was that, after scraping the surface of the Caf, we are now to strike at its very heart. Please supply your proton torpedoes in the comment section below.

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.

During the recently-concluded Interim Term, the College sent delegations to such faraway lands as Ireland, China, and the World War II museum in New Orleans, Louisiana. For a few lucky students, these excursions were funded by generous scholarships awarded to those who displayed both need and merit. Confident in my mendicant ways, I submitted a rousing appeal. As you may have noticed, my fellow diner, I was not one of the lucky few. Apparently, studying abroad is reason enough to assume that additional traveling is unnecessary, if not frowned up. In other words, I am perpetually traveling.

Look at me traveling.

But I digest. In order to recreate what I am sure would have been an unforgettable experience, I traveled my happy self to the local Oriental Asian Chinese C-word restaurant. Actually, I will be accepting nominations for more politically correct abbreviations in the ever-expansive comments section below.

Now, I am fully aware that the topic is an uncomfortable one, what with recent economic trends, lead coated toys, et cetera–in fact, my wireless keyboard (which reads Assembled in China) died while typing the sentence. Remote kill switches are all the rage these days. Peking, however, has elegantly avoided controversy by taking the rarely-used name of the issue’s capital, hiding in plain sight like milled flax seed in my homemade bread. To the untrained brain, then, the name translates into a mostly harmless observation of a royalty who suffers the occasional slip-up.

Moreover, the restaurant subconsciously feeds its diners pro-American vibes by playing mandolin covers of songs like “Take Me Home, Country Roads” during its peak hours. Coupled with the sounds of the classic symbol of American expansion, the train (which runs through the restaurant’s men’s room, or so it sounds), Peking runs a cleverly concealed operation.

I predictably end up ordering the lemon chicken, though I am prone to join even more predictable discussions about what to order.

Even though I feel that I have Peking’s shtick down, I cannot help but notice that fact that a mere hour and thirty minutes after feasting on breaded and fried pieces of chicken dipped in tangy lemon sauce, one inexplicably finds oneself in the drive-thru of a local fast food joint–as though driven there by instinct, and not SUV. If Peking’s ulterior motive is to exert some form of Eastern influence on small-town Americans, why, then, use them to increase the revenues of American-owned fast food chains?

The answer to this question has eluded me for the past three and a half years, but I believe that I am now closing in on an inescapable truth. On Monday, Secretary of Agriculture, Tom Vilsack, announced new dietary guidelines that stress cutting back on saturated fat, sugar, and sodium (much to the Salt Institute’s chagrin. Yes, there is a Salt Institute). These three nutrients also happen to be the cornerstones that hold up the fast food industry, the fourth, in case you are curious, being college students and poverty.

By making a perfectly justifiable leap of logic, it then becomes reasonable to conclude that Peking and its accomplices exist to lure their diners into settling for a fast food fix–in other words, a second dinner–thereby gradually driving up the rates of obesity and cardiovascular disease across the country.

The inevitable invasion is approaching.

I spent three weeks in the motherland this past X-Mas gorging myself on traditional Scandinavian fare. I did so for two reasons: the season being the most obvious, but the inexplicable fact that I had dropped twenty pounds being the more pressing. (Fear not–I was fortunate enough to have a medical camera spelunk through my digestive tract, finding only healthy tissue.) The conclusion, then, is that I have not been able to ingest enough nutrients. Go figure.

I returned to the College with a somewhat gloomy disposition, which I have later come to realize was a byproduct of spending my break in a country teetering on the edge of the Arctic Circle (how I survived close to nineteen years in that place I will never know). During my stay, I made an effort of brushing up on my cooking–after all, I do a lot of talking about the subject, even though I am still learning to walk.

I have come to see the Interim Term as a month-long weekend, and not in the good sense. Rather, the semester is a four-week-long Sunday afternoon in the Caf, complete with uninspired slabs of meat, chicken/veal parmesan hybrids, and a host of other forgettable dishes that I purposefully missed. After the pathetic showing that was the end of the fall semester, the Caf now boasts a new leadership whose crowning achievements so far have been wishing me good morning on a daily basis and moving a counter about nine feet forward. There are also new salad bowls.

During one particularly dismal meal–a Thursday, probably. I never could get the hang of Thursdays–I threw my head back and exclaimed, fists a-shaking:

“I am so [expletive] sick of this place! So here’s what I’m gonna do: I’m gonna go to the [expletive] store and I’m gonna pick up some [expletive] flour, some [expletive] yeast, and I’m gonna go back and I’m gonna make some [expletive] bread. I’m gonna make my own [expletive] bread!“

And so I did. I went to the local hypermarket, bought the ingredients (sans expletives), and made some [expletive] bread. I even picked up some decent peanut butter. As a result, I can now avoid eating lunch in the Caf. Of course, the place has been closed during the times when I have actually sought it out in the middle of the day, which sheds even more light on the ridiculous claim that the dining hall remains open and available for twelve uninterrupted hours. Breakfast, meanwhile, has been reduced to a temporary food fix, since I will not be awake before double digits starting this Friday. That said, I have never minded breakfast, especially since cereal and yogurt avoid tampering by being–you know–pre-packaged.

Dinner… The word conjures up new, conflicting connotations. If I railed against monotony in the past, I take it back. At the same time, however, I hope that some of the more bizarre creations never make it out of the breeding pool that is the Interim Term.

Fig. 1: a chicken (?) dish swimming in its own oil (?). It is here joined by some herb–anything from spinach or cilantro, really; your guess is as good as mine–corn, and a solitary carrot slice. The unannounced appearance of this dish caused the plate’s other inhabitants to abandon ship:

I washed the creation down with a gulp of hearty tap water, only to find an oil flake dancing on the water’s surface:

Either the chicken (?) is to blame, or the recent Gulf oil spill has found new, more creative ways of reminding us of its presence. I spent a year listening to the border conflict between Tennessee, Alabama, and Georgia about how to partition the water in the Chattahoochee to satisfy all three states’ energy and mollusk needs, and–actually, never mind. Who would have guessed that the water would be returning to wreak havoc upon its former masters? Someone needs to make a 3D movie about this.

Also, this:

Are those… tater tots? I don’t even–

I was leaving the library the other day when I came across an injured bird:

It looked awfully tasty.

During my hunt for the Shadow Caf, I have become aware of several disconcerting changes to the Caf. While my math skills are less than satisfactory (as exemplified in my quantitative GRE score), I do know that two negatives often make a positive. In this case, however, the Caf has reached an all-time low.

I knew that groundbreaking shakeups had occurred in the Caf when I slouched up there one morning to see a man in a suit talking and gesticulating vigorously about how the place should be run–usually, Caf employees exhibit a more resigned air. When this scene repeated itself for every meal I partook in, a bizarre hope flared within me. At first glance, it appeared that the Caf’s echoing worlds–the Shadow Caf and its regular counterpart–were converging. That same night, I feasted on a pasta dish with actual red pepper flakes. In my gluttonous haze, I forgot to take its picture.

But then, the convergence seemed to take its toll on our Caf. Mundane items winked out of existence: late breakfasts and afternoon lunches, for example. Meanwhile, other items, such as clocks, appeared in their place.

Bemused, I wandered around the Caf, snapping photos of the occurrences in broad daylight until I felt the gaze of the Caf drones on me.

“What are you taking pictures for?” one asked.

“Oh–I, uh,” I said, panicking, “I’ve just never noticed that clock before.”

“Oh, all right. We thought there was something wrong.”

I laughed blandly, my nerves singing a song shriller than a dog whistle.

The weeks progressing, the Caf continued to slide into its temporal whirlpool. When yogurt, oatmeal, milk, and peanut butter vanished, I grew hungry and ill-tempered. When the serving areas were evacuated during my normal eating times, I grew furious.

Allow me to suspend all satire for a minute while I wax political about the direction in which the Caf is headed.

I fully understand the new Administration’s desire to make sweeping changes on this campus–but apparently, some of these changes have manifested themselves in the dismissal of employees integral to the college’s day-to-day activities. For example: one of the organizations I am involved in is scheduled to meet this evening at half past six. Due to the changes in campus management, we have yet to receive confirmation about a meeting place.

As far as the Caf goes, it is simple enough to remove its leadership and dismiss the issue as a job well done. The problem, however, goes far beyond those who work there. In essence, the quality (or lack thereof) of the food served is abysmal. Take, for example, the “Grilled Turkey Reuben Wrap” on the menu for tonight. Turkey, a “safe” white meat, is often a go-to item for those looking to monitor their caloric intake. Indulging in one of these wraps, however, will set you back 2,100 milligrams of sodium. A couple of ribs, meanwhile, will give you close to your allotted daily intake of saturated fat. With nutritional values like these, the conclusion is that the Caf is dishing out fast food under the guise of home-cooked meals. I am, in other words, not surprised that the Caf often neglects to post nutritional information during meal times. Meanwhile, its “Fresh & Healthy” section online rings with irony.

There is also the issue of convenience. During my days as a Hilltopper, displaying the Caf in a positive light often included mentioning that “From 7:00 AM to 7:00 PM, you will be able to eat what you want, when you want it. WHO CAN BEAT THAT?” The quote is taken from CampusDish, the Caf’s official web site, and the claim is more than an exaggeration. My class schedule (and Caf experience) has led me to avoid the most congested meal periods in favor of grabbing breakfast, lunch, and dinner before lectures and meetings. Up until quite recently, this strategy worked flawlessly: I would grab whatever leftovers were still being offered. Today, at 1:20 PM–with twenty minutes to go until the next class period–the serving areas had been cleared and cleaned. I am sure that tomorrow, before my 9:40 class, there will be no breakfast items left, even though several students have their first class of the day at that time.

Rectifying the latter issue would be as simple as leaving the food out for thirty more minutes. The former, however, requires a major investment.

In my opinion, I seem to be attending (and soon, graduating from) the college during a time when a host of problems are being addressed: we need a new science building. We need a new gym. We need to renovate Henry, provide free international travel for all students, and to raise enrollment. Moreover, we need to make sure that those students remain on campus for four years–retain them. Then again, this may be business as usual at the college, for all I know. I firmly believe, however, that giving the students a place to eat–eat well–and socialize is a step in the right direction. It will in no way cause students to flock to the school–after all, I have yet to hear of a campus at which the dining hall is the major draw–but it would, at the very least, fix a problem that has been overlooked.

I am unable to attend the President’s Q&A session Tuesday evening, so instead, I will leave this entry right here, a kind of haughty manifesto. If my claims seem unreasonable, then I ask you to please bring back the fruit and peanut butter for six more months–until my graduation. While we’re at it, some bacon chili cheeseburgers now and then wouldn’t hurt, either.