Voices

Come for the view, stay for the food

By the

February 19, 2004


Stomach growling, I rush into the Leo J. O’Donovan dining hall at 2:15 for a late lunch.I walk through the doors and wait patiently as the visitors in front of me pay in cash.After several minutes of arguing with the cashier, they pass through.She swipes my card, and I walk quickly towards the top level and pass through the halfway-closed doors.

I pick up a plate and promptly put it back as I discover that it is covered in dirt.Another plate-no, drops of melted cheese. Surveying the stacks of plates, I find no unadulterated plates in sight. I grab yet another plate and hastily dump pasta and slop spoonfuls of sauce onto it before I can notice the blemishes on the dish. I grab several breadsticks and head over to the other side of the cafeteria to sit down with my friend Nick, as he stares out at the frozen Potomac and the cars inching along the Key Bridge.

Before I can sit down, I realize that I forgot to get a fork. Closing my eyes, I select a fork, rush back to the table and thrust the fork into the pasta. Nick now stares at a slice of pizza, adorned with clumps of freshly sliced mozzarella, studded with asteroid-shaped pieces of sausage, and oozing pepperoni juice.He raises the slice to his mouth only to have grease trickle down his arm and drench his fingers. He wipes his hand and adds to his pile of napkins smothered in grease. I slurp down my pasta, fresh from the refrigerator, crunch on a breadstick, and jump to my feet for a second course.

I wander over to the entre line and survey the endless possibilities for the next course: more pasta, black, shapeless pieces of meat, a mound of mashed potatoes, and a bowl of carrots floating in a brownish brine. I warily stab at a chunk of meat with the tongs, slap some potatoes on the plate, and saturate the entire mess with gravy.

I fail to realize that I had spilled several drops of gravy on the counter, for which I am promptly scolded by the woman scrubbing the counter, “Don’t you spill anything on that counter, honey. I just washed it! Hold that plate right up to the bowl, hold that plate up.” Before I can express a lack of culpability, I touch my plate to the bowl of carrots and she mumbles her approval, “Thank you, hon.”

I return to the table to douse my food in salt.I reach for the shaker and attempt to sprinkle my plate. I tap carefully on the shaker, but the salt refuses to move. I turn the shaker upside down and the crystals remain fused together, refusing to submit to the laws of gravity. I twist off the cap, poke a pencil into the shaker, and several grains trickle out. I poke harder and the salt just gushes forth.

I quickly finish my plate and explore my remaining options, ultimately deciding cereal is the safest bet.I snag a bowl, place it under the dispenser, push the handle, and stare down at the bowl, awaiting the flood of flakes. But the bowl remains empty. I tap the dispenser and the flakes rush out, overflowing from the bowl.I return to my seat and begin to crunch on the cereal, and taste the unmistakable flavor of sugar greeting my tongue.

Peering into the bowl, I notice an infestation of Frosted Flakes among their healthy, non-frosted counterparts.I carefully pick out the sugary treats while continuing to munch on my cereal. Throughout the course of the meal, I eat a sandwich, some soup, cantaloupe and a slice of cake. By the time I finish eating, I pile the empty plates and bowls on my tray for a census. Four plates, two bowls, and a small plate-quite the collection.Nick grins mischievously from behind his Phillies hat and asserts, “I think that may be a new record.”

The cafeteria is now empty except for a few workers in the corner and several students peeking through the almost-closed doors.Nick and I walk to the conveyor belt and are welcomed by the fragrance of dirty dishes, half-eaten tuna sandwiches and undercooked hamburgers.I squeeze through the doors and entertain gazes from workers as I collect some fruit. I quickly place two apples and an orange in my right pocket, three oranges in my left, and a banana and an apple in my left coat pocket, falling pathetically short of the thirteen oranges my roommate once pilfered. In my right coat pocket I cram a handful of chocolate chip and M&M cookies.I pour frozen yogurt from the fountain into a cone and begin slurping.

Pants sagging with the weight of the stolen fruit, yogurt dripping onto my hand, I reach for a mint as the cashier stares at my pockets.Before she can interrogate me about the mysterious bulges, Nick and I push through the doors and head to class.Stomach bulging, I trudge to ICC, my daily gorging but a distant memory.

Lunch at Leo’s: another side effect of hunger.

Mike O’Rourke is a first-year in the College. He’s that guy who eats all the sketchy food at the dining hall.


Voice Staff
The staff of The Georgetown Voice.


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