Somewhere, Alice Statler was crying onto her mint-laden bed spread. While her personal bellboy wiped her tears and turned down her sheets, her sorrow could be felt throughout Statler High (Valley sucks!). The most popular eatery on campus belonged to Ag, HumEc and ILR. She didn’t want to give that to a bunch of farmers, babysitters and annoying people who will one day fire you. So the Terrace Restaurant opened its doors and the students no longer had to be guests of the hotel to enjoy its grilled chicken sandwiches with or without fries and medium fountain beverages. Now, there is a battle. Some say people go to the Statler for the food while others go to Trillium for the eye candy. Others speculate that it might be the other way around. And still others believe that no one really cares. Well, I cared.
My stomach was still full from all that I had consumed in Trizzle before the food fight erupted. It’s good I got out of there when I did. I headed down Tower Road, cut behind Barton where people were still waiting in line for Jon Stewart and walked down to the front entrance of the hotel. I was actually a little fatigued from all of my activities at Trillium, so I decided to get a room. I would have simply walked in and asked for one under the assumption that you can actually do that, but then realized that in order to become a guest, I would need to have made my reservation before 1900 and put down four hundred dollars along with my soul as a deposit. So, I headed toward the Terrace.
While on my way, I went into one of the nice bathrooms and had one of the most amazing experiences of my undergraduate career. As soon as I walked in, a computer voice that sounded like John Madden first asked me if I had any heart conditions, signs of pregnancy, recent surgery or fear of vanilla scented air fresheners. The lights went off, Lindsay Lohan’s “Rumors” started playing and I stood there in amazement. The lights then came on. I hadn’t moved but my hands were washed, my shirt was pressed, my inner child had been summoned, one of my essays had been proofread — the computer had done everything. Wow, I thought. Lindsay Lohan is awesome. But suddenly, the sinks began to stare me down. I flinched and they pivoted their automatic soap dispensers toward me. I was out of there like a boner in sweatpants.
Freshened up and forever petrified of automatic sinks and toilets, I finally made my way to Cornell’s high society. It was about 12:30 p.m., so I figured there might be a few hungry little Hotelies in the Terrace. I was incorrect. The line actually stretched all the way to Trillium, which was nearly empty by this time. In fact, there was a guest list for the waiting list for the line to get in the line for the Gourmet Salads ($5.95) alone. I think I saw people who probably should have graduated in the ’90s, but refused to give up and eat at Mac’s instead. I’ve heard that it’s common practice for groups of small girls to allow their friends to cut in. So, I grabbed one and threatened to tell everyone that she once bought something from Old Navy. She then got me into the salad line.
I noticed that typically, guys stand in the Southwestern Wrap line and chicks go for the salads. Like every intricate system, this one also sometimes has flaws. There will be a guy (like me), who accidentally (or that’s what he tells his friends), ends up in the salad line. If this happens, the guy will most likely sprinkle some protein powder and creatine onto his mixed greens with the honey-tarragon-estrogen vinaigrette. Similarly, a girl could become separated from her posse and find herself staring face to face with all kinds of life-threatening carbohydrates that she must then consume. The wraps ($5.50) are actually pretty good. They are certainly filling and you can get as much or as little as you want in the middle, depending on how many people you wish to repel when you sit down.
Then there are those who walk in between the two cool lines and can easily access fried foods, sandwiches from the grill and deliciously flavored Aquafina. Those people suck and are told to get their food and get the hell out of there. When I entered the banquet hall, I felt severely underdressed, so I went back to one of the bathrooms and had it tailor an Armaburberrdolceandguccipolo suit. I returned, salad in one hand and Blackberry in the other, so I could show other people how cool I was. I returned to the action, but again, no seats. In fact, even the floor was filled to capacity with Hotelies and the Hotel/ILR hybrids, who can be identified by their sleek suit jackets, pajama bottoms and OB textbooks. I moved about this business conference, trying to wedge my way into a seat, but to no avail. At one of the tables, a guy dressed in a suit by Domenico Vacca, tie by Yves Saint Laurent, shoes by Gucci and socks by Wegmans: Signature Collection, was describing his weekend sexcapades through a Powerpoint presentation. This time, I Blackberried “Ken” to make myself look cool and ready for my HADM 334 prelim: Financial Accounting for Chocolate Souffl