Robert Scribner is a senior majoring in business. He can be contacted at [email protected].I enjoy eating food. It is important to me. I can’t live without food. I feel very strongly about it. And considering my on-the-go, ultra-hip lifestyle, I don’t have the time to prepare and enjoy the home-cooked, traditional Internet recipes that our forefathers relied and thrived upon.
Nor do I have the great physical strength that allowed these previous generations to push cart fulls upon cart fulls of television dinners down the long and arduous aisles of the mythical, mystical “grocery stores” that we have all read about in the encyclopedia.
When I am overtaken with the overwhelming urge to satiate with kilocalories, I look for something fast, and I look for something made out of food. For the sake of opinion articles, we will hereafter use the appellation “fast food.” I don’t need slow food. I need fast food.
Perhaps this is why I am so distraught about the state of on-campus dining. Frequent construction delays and pending lawsuits have gotten my spirits down and my appetite up. I often find myself stumbling around campus, searching for sustenance, literally starving.
Just the other day, amidst one of many unintentional but symbolic hunger strikes, I voraciously staggered into the library. Seeking asylum and also burgers in its grandiose and magnificent lobby, I fell to the floor just past the entrance.
Just 96 hours later, I was awakened by a voice. It was a beautiful voice, coming from a beautiful face. It was the face of Albert Einstein, pioneer of the modern bagel. Albert explained to me his history and the history of his bagel restaurant. I learned of his twin brother, Alfred Einstein, who had died at birth, and how the two had shared a pre-natal love for delectable baked goods.
I glanced at the restaurant on my left and then glanced back. I saw nothing. Albert had disappeared faster than the speed of light squared. It was then that I remembered my hunger. With a restored morale, I walked into Einstein Brothers Bagels. I ordered a hummus bagel, chicken noodle soup and a cup of tap water. I could hardly contain my excitement, but I did. I’m not sure how.
As I was approaching the cash register, the knowledgeable employee informed me that they do not serve tap water. I stopped in my tracks. Huh? No tap water? That’s not real, I thought. Luckily, I was right. Another employee corrected the first: a small plastic cup of tap water is available for a nominal fee of only one hundred American cents.
I politely declined the server’s kind offer. Thank you for attempting to charge your potentially loyal customer a dollar for 16 ounces of water out of your sink, though. A little bit annoyed, I sat down and waited for my food in the crowded, cramped, nearly sweltering dining area (it seemed to be around 80 degrees). I eventually got my food and consumed it, but its mediocre taste hardly made up for the peripheral imperfections. Though I had assuaged my hunger, I felt dissatisfied entirely.
Maybe things will get better for the Einstein brothers, I thought. I doubt I will ever return to find out, though. I don’t appreciate the little inconveniences that were overlooked, and I don’t think that a restaurant can build loyalty out of our supposed necessity. First impressions are important, and Einstein struck out with me immediately. So I guess until the Union opens, I will have to rely on the primitive foods of the ancient hominids that preceded us: brown bag lunches.