Dear Less-Than-Grateful Yale Students,

The time is 7:37 p.m. when you saunter into the dining hall. The doors to the servery have been closed for seven minutes, but with a need-to-see-the-manager confidence, you demand that we open them back up so that you can “get your grub on before hitting up them frats.” We sigh as you attempt to impress your friends by spinning your plate on your finger, spilling half of your food along the counter we just cleaned up. And after muttering a stifled “thank you,” you strut to an empty seat. We know what you’re thinking now. You think you are alone. You think that we can’t hear every criticizing word you mutter just because you’re in the dining hall, and we’re still cleaning up your damn mess. “The water here is awful dry!” you exclaim. Now you’re leaving, and you think you’re slick when you dump an entire cut of fish in the garbage because “it smells way too fishy,” but we always see. Or when you’re walking home, or studying for an econ midterm, or rushing Chi Psi, all the while bitching, “Branford’s chicken breast was riddled with shotgun pellets!” We are still here, waiting patiently for your return.

When you do come back, it’s for breakfast the next morning. We watch carefully as you fill your plate up with a mountain of the chef’s frittata. One bite in, and you’re a little unimpressed, so you move your plate onto the floor, and sit criss-cross-applesauce, leaning over the egg dish. You’d hate for it to go to waste, so you proceed to mold your food like a child in wet sand, building frittata-fortresses and elaborate egg-castles. With every attempt we make to clean the floor, you whine, “You don’t know the secret password, you can’t come in!” After a week, Yale Health has to send in specialists because the egg-ridden floor has become a biohazard.

Next week you have the audacity to return and head immediately toward the ice cream, “the only good food at Yale.” Of course, it’s sweet and delicious, and you have no need to complain. After slurping down every melty drip of your mint chocolate chip cone, you head back to your dorm because you’re not feeling well. Your vision is blurry. You’re nauseous and confused. “This is just a cold,” you think, daubing at the foam on your mouth. Oh, how truly wrong you are. Didn’t your mother ever teach not to play with your food?

Sincerely,

Yale Dining Staff

A Special Message from Yale Dining was originally published in The Yale Herald on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.