Once again, Leo’s has made me sick. But this time, it has nothing to do with undercooked chicken or unwashed forks. I’m homesick.
I went abroad ready to experience everything that a foreign country has to offer: the people, the history, and especially the food. But then I went to Ireland, where high-end local cuisine is fairly hard to come by. Some of my favorite local fare includes the authentically Irish kebab place, a Mexican restaurant, and a Burger King.
Local cuisine options exhausted, I tried my hand at cooking. I found that I have neither a talent for it, nor a nose for realizing that my food has expired. Rice Krispies have become a staple of my diet and basic nutrients have become a privilege.
My woes are not Ireland-specific. In June, I spent a few weeks taking a Pre-Session class at Georgetown. Leo’s was closed, and I figured three weeks was not long enough to merit a trip to Safeway, so I opted to eat out instead. Going off campus for food would also ease the pain of living in Harbin as a rising junior, I figured. I really did try to make the most of my decision. I thought I’d finally get to the places around Georgetown I had never tried before.
But that was an ambitious plan, and, of course, it failed. I never made it past 36th Street, and I had a Burger Madness for what seemed like breakfast, lunch, and dinner for three weeks straight. I was like Super Size Me’s Morgan Spurlock, only I was motivated by convenience—not social commentary. I constantly felt like I had lead in my stomach, and the hike up to the second floor of Harbin became more strenuous than my crew practices freshman year. Like a child, I couldn’t be trusted with the responsibility of choosing what I would eat every day.
For these reasons, I’ve realized that it will be necessary for me to eat at Leo’s for the rest of my college career. Beyond Chicken Finger Thursdays and Hoya wraps, Leo’s has enough variety within its limited menu to accommodate my immature palate. I would even be willing to go on a post-graduate meal plan, if they have one. Leo’s has too much to offer for me to turn my back on it in favor of my own bland cooking. Leo’s may not be great, but I’m certainly no better.
I have accepted the fact that when I am a senior, with friends who are charging toward adulthood by cooking for themselves, I’ll still be eating at a place most freshman are sick of by Thanksgiving—probably alone. While that’s sad, I prefer it to scurvy. Apparently, Cookie Crisp doesn’t have much Vitamin C.
I also understand that this will put me at a serious disadvantage when I’m no longer eligible for a meal plan. I’ll be exactly where I am now, eating peanut butter sandwiches and grilled cheeses, while my peers will all have a few years of culinary experience. But for the time being, I’ll deal with my culinary ignorance like many college students deal with their nascent alcoholism. I’ll ignore it, enjoy the benefits, and repress thoughts of how much reality will sting when my behavior is no longer socially acceptable.
I imagine that when I graduate, I’m going to miss many small things about Georgetown. I don’t see the point in prematurely alienating something that has been so significant to my Georgetown experience, too. Leo’s is where we forged friendships early in our freshman year when we had to sit with people we only vaguely knew because we didn’t recognize anyone else. It has fostered the physical and social growth of every Georgetown student. I don’t want to miss it before I even graduate.
I have a recurring dream where I swipe into Leo’s and walk forward. As I’m walking, I can just barely make out the cookies and I can smell the stir-fry. But just as I’m about to walk into the main hall, I wake up. I’m comforted only by the fact that soon enough—and until I throw my cap in the air—I’ll be able to cross that barrier, because Norovirus doesn’t hold a candle to the hurt I’m feeling.
Way to mention the taco bar, Aodhan.