By now, you should be acquainted with the three major campus cafeterias -- Collis, the Hop and Food Court. (The lesser, or more specialized eateries, such as Lone Pine and Homeplate are rendered irrelevant by their limited hours and distinct clientele of destitute connoisseur and herbivorous waif, respectively.) The intention of this pointless spiel is to further familiarize you with the social climate of each establishment and to ultimately assert the culinary supremacy of Food Court.
It is interesting in my mind that I would choose to talk first about the social aspect of Dartmouth dining instead of the, um, food aspect. While it is true that the ambience of any restaurant is a direct consequence of that restaurant's menu, it is also true that after a while the prevailing social climate begins to influence a menu's content, as in the case of Collis Cafe, the playground of both the trendy and the upwardly mobile jerk. There, before shuffling off to class in one's oversized cargo pants or diagonally-slung shoulder satchel (either Abercrombie & Fitch or GAP mind you), one can get a smoothie -- a bland fruit-based drink that tastes more like sweetened paste than the tropical delight it promises to be. Or, you can queue up in the vegetarian omelet (yes, Virginia, that should be an oxymoron) line where everyone tries to do their best impression of a sardine. Oh, and then there's gazpacho (like salsa but without the chips). And the sandwiches (out of tomatoes, sorry) and waffles (the only redeeming part of Collis if it weren't for those irons that beep and burn). Then it's through the swinging metal flaps (one word: why?) and into the true part of Collis -- the dining area.
The immediate choice always depends on the weather -- inside or outside? In either situation, diners generally arrange themselves so that they're on display to passers-by. (If, for example, you manage to claim one of the three tables at the window seat, you're guaranteed in the course of any standard meal to garner at least 45 glances, ten double-takes, and one lingering gaze.) Unlike Food Court, where new diners put themselves on display by walking down the center aisle (I hate that, what do you think Food Court is, some catwalk in Milan?), diners in Collis sit in a veritable eating gallery, backgrounded by overpriced artwork and a fake fireplace. Collis is actually the closest thing we have to a student center, so perhaps some students choose to endure the cramped quarters, the pasty beverages and the scorched waffles just to believe that they are regularly present at a hub of campus activity, and therefore, always "in the know."
Then, there is the Hop, birthplace of pre-prepared foods and stomping ground of your artsy, noticeably unkempt types. But the Hop has a more diverse dining constituency than Collis -- there's sometimes a table of footballers (or big, rowdy frat guys, I always confuse the two) and there's oftentimes Hood patrons and always students limping out of their 10As to their first meal of the day. And the food. In the self-serve area, you have your choice of cardboard pizza, "pure butter" croissants, chocolate chip cookie bricks, or brownies of dubious origin. It would be unfair of me, however, to slight or elide the oreo cookie pie. It is a creamy, rich pie sprinkled with oreo bits and supported by an oreo crust. (I got sick eating one once. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I had already eaten three in the preceding half-hour.) There are also salads if you're into that sort of thing.
The grill at the Hop is basically a place where things that have been frozen for ages (questionable veal cutlets, suspect fish parts) are re-animated in the Frankenstein fryer. Whenever I go to the Hop, I always get a veal parmesan sandwich ("veal parm" in Hopspeak) because of a lethargic reticence that consumes me whenever I look at the Courtyard Cafe menu. The Hop's seating arrangement is less exhibitionistic than Collis's (and you get to read old Hop performance advertisement posters while you're eating. My favorite is the HMS Pinafore poster. Ah, androgyny -- a sweet balm for the feeble libido.)
That leaves us with Food Court. First, you'll realize that your relationship with Food Court is more than professional when you find yourself referring to it with cutesy pet names such as "FC" or "Foo Co" or "Le Court de Food." Second, Food Court's been established by NASA and Star Trek episode #45 as a certified temporal vortex. Undergraduates, such as myself, have been seen going into Food Court at 6:30 in the evening and have not been seen exiting until 11:30. NASA believes that Food Court successfully introduces a languor over the aimless diner such that a half-hour meal turns into a four-hour languishment in which you never really finish your original meal but you continue going to the grill (careful: HOT SURFACE!) and the pizza display (DON'T REACH UNDER THE GLASS!) for more food that you'll never eat but somehow you think that you're not full and that you must have more food and you stay and you stay and you stay and people leave and come back, leave and come back and you're still there, on your fourth plate, gnawing on a piece of pizza left over from your first.
Oh, and every dish in Food Court sucks, save the cheeseburger deal (one, well done, please). For, in the manner of Keats (Ode on an American Burger): "Beauty is burger, burger beauty, -- that is all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." Indeed, that is all ye need to eat.
