“Let’s go to Commons”: four words that cause my heart to sink to the bottom of my chest.
Walking into the exalted dining hall, one is initially left in awe. Commons’s high ceilings, decadent sconcing, and ambient lighting create the impression of a sort of glorified modern-day agora. Soon, however, one’s view is impeded as a horde of people squish past, fighting to claim their spot in line.
Now, it might simply be my experience as a person standing at a mere five feet tall, but I have often found myself lost within the crowds that swarm the length of Commons. Whether it’s because I run head-first into an athlete or accidentally assault someone with my backpack as I rotate in circles trying to get a sense of my bearings, I never seem to make it through unscathed.
Then comes the problem of choosing what to eat—or, rather, the question of which seemingly endless line I want to wait in. First up is Lotus. The line snakes between various circular tables, fifty people all waiting anxiously for a plate of pork, chicken, or vegetable dumplings. Whether this bottleneck is a consequence of the herd mentality towards the superiority of dumplings or a true insatiable appetite for the stuffed dough crescents, I will never know.
Then comes Rostir with its promise of rotisserie chicken and vegan arepas, which are—in my humble opinion—the saving grace of Commons (though I cannot speak on the chicken due to an irrational fear of eating meat that is still attached to the bone). However, I’ve begun to realize that I am only capable of eating this mass of cornmeal so many times before it starts to lose its charm.
Then comes Pasta e Basta, offering students two options of noodles drenched in sauce. Whether it be a bolognese or a pesto, the bowl appears innocent. And yet, it will undoubtedly sit in one’s stomach, reminding you of your choice to consume it for the rest of the day.
Last is Rooted, the forgotten and long-neglected of the Commons line-up: the restaurant that sits on the bench, good for morale but hardly noticed. Here one must choose between two entrees: a healthy concoction dressed up with a pile of arugula, or a flatbread with an unidentifiable mixture of toppings.
Once you have your dish in hand, you must find somewhere to sit. If your friends have acquired a spot, you must scan the field in a vain effort to find them, eventually making your way through the maze of chairs and flocks of groups standing about. Some days you will run into friends, other times foes—some days, both.
If your friends have not yet claimed a table via the custom of throwing backpacks onto chairs or draping jackets across the length of wood, you must track one down. This experience often occurs as follows: you spot a table you think is empty—you are hopeful as you approach, only to realize it is in fact taken. You see another table in the distance, you begin to scurry over—someone else seizes it. You think you see your friend, and all will be well, but alas, it’s not your friend and you realize you should have worn your glasses. Finally, you and your group resign yourselves to awkwardly sharing a half-filled table.
This now begins what I see as a silent battle of wills. The person or people originally seated will either stand firm in their resolve, or eventually pack up their plates —at which point you feel a twinge of guilt. Now it is finally time to eat. One bite, not bad. Second bite, still pretty good. Third bite, maybe some salt and pepper? And by the fourth bite, I wish I had gotten the [fill in blank] instead. You continue eating with your friends, attempting to make conversation though only catching every other word over the cacophony surrounding you. .
I know that such an opinion will be unpopular among the masses, but I think I’m on the right side of history here. Until that blissful day when I am no longer in the minority, when someone suggests Commons, my people-pleasing self will always say, “Sure.”
