By Dale Bell

Plat Du Jour: You enjoy missionary sex and once referred to the Beef Bourguignon as “ethnic food”. Your first-year friend group still meets for dinner three times a week. You have never felt real emotion.

Honor G. Grill: You’re obsessed with investment. You think that sometimes with regard to gender/racial equality, the pendulum has swung too far in the opposite direction. You build your identity around a sports team that got blown out 85-3 last fall.

Pizza Parlor: As a child, you thought being a grown-up meant eating pizza at every meal. You were right. You are a happy and well-adjusted person and will continue to be until you die at 35.

Saute Station: Your great-grandfather was Italian. He had to struggle every day to get here and be accepted into American society. His uncle was bullied in high school by Vito Corleone. “So yeah,” you say to your silent Intro to Sociology class—you “understand the immigrant experience.”

8th Avenue Deli: You really liked Choose Your Own Adventure books in middle school but would only ever read one path. If you tried to reread it differently, you broke out in hives. You once spent thirty minutes deciding between the pepperoni and salami and immediately regretted your choice. 

Stir Fry: You’re loyal. Even when people let you down—when there are 18 baby corns and 2 shrimp in the bowl, or when they offer you honey-roasted eggplant—you stick to your guns. You are the target demographic for cable news.

Soup Station: “I liked the soup station before it was cool,” you say to your friends, who hate you. You are oblivious to the fact that liking the soup station is still not cool.

Spice Rack: You decided to be a Chemistry major despite having no prerequisites because you thought it was as close as you’d get to alchemy. Now you understand that the spice rack is, in fact, the closest you’ll get to alchemy. It’s been three years as a Chemistry major, and the only way you feel anything anymore is by grinding chili powder into your eyes.

Vegan Special: You still haven’t gotten over Emily Dickinson and are starting to think you never will.

Egg Station: You’re well-dressed, well-read, and extremely hot.

Desserts: March 15th, 2023. There was a cold rain, almost sleeting. It was dark and your headlights barely penetrated the thick mist. You were speeding – just a little over the limit. You didn’t see him until it was too late. Why? Why was he in the road? He went over the front bumper hard, cracking the windshield. You stopped the car. It was silent. Maybe you heard something. You can’t remember. You kept driving. You thought no one saw. I saw.

Cereal Bar: You did not go to Tithead.