In an expansive glass-and-linoleum cubicle beneath the quad of Buildings A and B, something terrible is happening.
Students are eating. I'm referring, of course, to the Fresh Food Café (colloquially, the FFC) and the quality of the food therein — indeed, the quality of anything therein, or the quality of anything at any of Hopkins' five university-sanctioned dining locations. Considering the magnitude and resources of the university as a whole, dining at Hopkins is inexcusably deplorable. The university's apparent disregard for the appetites of its students is perhaps the most palpable token of an administration widely accused of disconnect with the community it governs.
It isn't simply a matter of meal quality. To say "the food here is bad" would be a gross reduction, though those four words are not uncommonly heard in passing from oft-unsatisfied students leaving a meal. But to cite pithy saving graces — cookies in the FFC, burgers in Levering, whatever — as a counterargument would be pandering to oversimplification. Quality relies on so much more than sheer edibility — though of course it's a crucial factor. Prioritizing the facets of quality appears to be of little concern to Hopkins dining services: it neglects them all equally.
For the purpose of this critique, I will assess the quality of dining here in a tertiary evaluation: edibility, accessibility and monopoly. In tandem, the negligence of these stipulations has created a collegiate dining experience devoid of diversity, convenience and, to put it coarsely, tastiness.
To curb accusations of superciliousness, I'll begin with what is ostensibly the most superficial of the three tenets: edibility.
I acknowledge the culinary limitations of an industrial-sized kitchen feeding hundreds; Hopkins, it appears, does not. The greatest crime of Hopkins's chefs is their deliberate aversion to simplicity. Roasted rockfish with green chilies, as a rule, should not be cooked en masse. The inexplicably-titled "Home Zones" of the FFC and Nolan's are the primary culprit here. Their failed forgery of "elegance" oversteps the boundaries posed by their limited space and resources.
Granted, edible alternatives exist, but more often than not, these alternatives invoke a question of nutritional quality. There will always be foods that are, to put it bluntly, hard to screw up: examples include French fries, cheeseburgers, ice cream and so on. But what if one is counting carbs and the Mediterranean salad that night boasts a less-than-inviting brown shade? What if one is vegan and can't recognize the appeal of vegetable barley ragout? The few loyally viable (read: remotely appealing) options err on the side of deep-fried, calorie-laden and saccharine-ripe. One, it seems, must sacrifice nutrition for satisfaction.
To where, then, can students turn? The issue of accessibility renders the Hopkins dining experience bland in both taste and venue. I'm critical not of the notion of a freshman-exclusive dining hall, but of the notion that the freshman-exclusive dining hall is the sole option for the first-years it serves. Such is the case at Hopkins. A slim margin of freshmen sporadically eat lunch in Levering Hall, if only on sheer principle, but since Levering fails to accept meal swipes for food beyond the Meals-in-a-Minute section, doing so is less than conducive to the University's youngest students. The present meal plans require serious reconsideration. A centralized student union would provide the undergraduate community on whole with a convenient, fiscally feasible, diverse array of dining options. For now, Hopkins' sole arsenal of "real world food" — i.e. familiar brands, chicken soup for the consumerist soul — is Charles Street Market. CharMar runs a lucrative business by sheer virtue of the fact that they hold a monopoly on brand-name foodstuffs that most appear to relish (for evidence, take a peek at the deli come noon).
Monopolies, however, are illegal for a reason. The primary tender of CharMar is Dining Dollars, a Hopkins-exclusive currency marketed for its supposed convenience. In reality, it's little more than a colossal rip-off.
In short, you're paying more than you should. To sustain this claim, I point to the 2011-2011 Hopkins meal plan brochure — specifically, the upperclassman meal plan offering 1,650 Dining Dollars per semester. For that same span of time, this plan costs USD $2,079. Thus, the exchange rate between the two currencies is 0.79 Dining Dollars for each real world dollar. Or, if you're feeling thirsty, $3.79 for an energy drink marketed at just under 3 Dining Dollars.
The economic benefits of a substandard quality of living are myriad. However, I implore Hopkins dining services to reassess its priorities. I blame the issues delineated above on the inefficiencies of Aramark, the dining services franchise that provides our university with the food we find ourselves eating, somehow. Student feedback — what's that? — would reveal an overwhelming level of discontent with the present dining situation. If Hopkins is to reevaluate its food offerings, input from the student body must factor in, somehow. In the meantime, though, I'll stick to Chipotle.
