"Think Copies," says the laminated notice above the Xerox machine in the dining hall lobby. Not since "Employees Must Wash Hands Before Returning To Work" has a sign rung so true.
"Could I get, like, some chicken?" asks the listless freshman in North Face fleece and OU sweats. I dutifully serve them "like, chicken," usually with a side of the "like, french fries." This scene is repeated ad nauseam on any given work day, which is Latin for "to the point of disgust." The nauseam is especially potent on days we're serving gyros, which emit a warm blast of humid fragrance when they're pulled from the oven, reminiscent of an enormous dog panting on my face. And that's after he's gotten into the leftovers.
Being the cultured gourmand that I am, my delicate sensibilities are often shocked at the bizarre convolutions the names of menu items undergo at the dining hall. "Chorizo" becomes "Chizarro." "Ragout" is "rag-out." "Spinakopita?" You mean "puffy things."
I'm not really complaining. Dining hall labor is generally fairly convivial. The only people who manage to get under my skin occasionally are the ones who carry an air of haughtiness about them as they purview my smorgasbord.
"What's that?" they ask with crinkled nose.
"Monkey puke," I want to say. "Whale penis. Shredded donkey placenta."
But that would get me in trouble. Better I should stick to the company line.
"This is Ohio University. It does not matter what that is. You paid for it, and whether you eat it or not is of very small importance to us. As with your tuition, as with your health insurance, as with your parking space, so with your food."
"Go Bobcats."
