Before entering, I scanned the layout to find a point of engagement. No luck. The flow of human traffic in the cafeteria resembled a mock riot. No stones were being thrown and no one was crying injustice yet each person had their own unique cadence and destination to reveal a pattern that was no pattern. Behind me, the next wave of hungry consultants pushed me into the fray against my will. I was part of the mob. It was time to grab some grub.
You take the salad bar, I’ll grab the tofu stir-fry.
I search for what I’m craving and the chaos begins to make sense. My scanning eyes and line of sight are out paced by the number of options. I am fully integrated into the chaos by wandering aimlessly to each poorly marked station. Only to turn a corner to find more stations: regular salad, supreme salad, Korean BBQ, pizza, sandwiches, vegetarian, gluten-free, soft-drinks and health drinks. Being accosted by the caterers of each station while trying to reach a decision: “Would you like to try a sample?”, “Interest you in a salad?”, “Make a decision, yo?” This cafeteria was not designed by an architect, the layout was created by Pussy Riot in the hopes of upsetting the status quo.
Say no to the New Food Order!
It’s a smidge of anarchy paired with the blueprint of a traditional food court. A well-assembled plan that was cut into pieces then used for a game of 52 pickup. For all of the process improvement the consulting industry brags about, the cobbler’s kids are without shoes in this instance.
The Korean BBQ looks really good, except I don’t know where to get in line. The station is less than three feet away but there are a dozen people in front of me. I’m not sure if I’m cutting in front of someone or being taken advantage of. It's as if I'm sifting my way through the thick forest of pins in a Pachinko machine. With 25% will and 75% luck, I shake and ping my way to the food station. I load up on meat, veggies and white rice and head to the cashier.
The scale I set my food on has the gravitational pull of Jupiter. Apparently the Korean BBQ has coagulated into a ball of concrete as the scale indicates a price close to $13. I am tempted to ask about a layaway plan. Instead, I grab the last Andrew Jackson from my wallet and hand it over. My expression to the sticker shock registers with the cashier. Her smirk equates to, “Welcome to the cafeteria, sucker.”
Hello! Trying to find the weigh station for my Korean BBQ.
I exit to the seating arrangements of the cafeteria and survey the grounds. Waves of anxiety undulate in the pit of my stomach. Holy shit, I’m in high school again. The pressure to find a place to sit during the busiest part of lunch. There is the young crowd of astonishingly good-looking career climbers who occupy the majority of the space. They appear to have been pulled from a United Colors of Benetton casting call. In stark contrast are the apex predators atop the corporate ladder who sit at smaller tables. Then there are me and my co-workers: in the murky middle with little career growth and ambition. Luckily, we are the table that no one notices. I eat as fast as possible and head out the door.
Look, man. I just want to eat my food and leave.
The cafeteria exit is designed for assimilation back into work mode. A badge is required to depart the lunch experience. Leaving through turnstiles that account for where you were and also where you are going with your next security card swipe. Chaos to order. Somehow heading back to my cubicle doesn’t seem so bad anymore. But maybe that’s the point of the design. Damn you cafeteria. Damn you straight to hell.
Ahhh, home sweet home.
No comments:
Post a Comment