Marquis’ Intimate Diary

MONDAY, 29 MAY, 2000, PHILADELPHIA
MEMORIAL DAY
GRADUATION DAY

Today is graduation at the college what employs me. I am at work, despite it also being Memorial Day in the U.S. It is lunch time. And there’s something fishy afoot. My salad divination techniques are totally fuck’t today. And I’m fuckin’ pissed about it.

It must be the unheard-of number of well-dressed, wealthy parents from all over the mid-Atlantic and New England who are on campus today. That must be it. Because otherwise I cannot account for the ga-lorrrrious spread — the bleedin’ cornucopia! — that is the salad bar today.

I stumbled bleary-eyed into Ye Olde Snaque Shaque and literally froze in my tracks. “My eyes,” I bethought myself, “are surely playing tricks on me.” For if I didn’t know better, I’d say that was a huge vat of chicken watercress salad, next to a tray of pasta radish tomato salad, nestled among the bin of sliced red onion and the little spot for hummus.

Hummus? Bleedin’ hummus!?! Un-fucking-heard of.

I immediately formed a picture in my head. That this place is like some chi-chi orphanage. When the parents are in town, the red carpet is ubiquitous and ever-unfurling. No hummus nor asparagus-tomato-vinaigrette nor any other expense will be spared for the meticulously groomed image that must be presented to potential clientele. Hummus is no object!

You want a choice of dressings? Fine, parental units, take your pick. We offer them all. You want some oregano to sprinkle on top of your lovely, lush, sproingy-boingy salad? Of course we can comply! Silly parents, can’t you tell? This is a classy joint!

But woe be to the poor student (or employee) who must attend the school after the ‘rents are safely ensconced back on L.I. or the Cape.

Today you have a choice. Of having rusty iceberg lettuce with Russian dressing and some whithered, octogenarian cherry tomatoes — or finding something else to eat in some other location. What’ll it be, slim?

Cruel. Cruel and unusual.

I wanted to march my ass right up to Salad Lady and light into her:

“LOOK, Mrs. Hannigan, what the godamned hell is going on around here is what I wanna know!” I would say.

“Oh hello, er … Eric (???). Whatever do you mean?” she might have replied.

“Your salad bar is gorgeous!” I would say with ripe venom. “What the fuck!? Is this organic broccoli, by any chance? Hmm? HMMM!?”

“Why, yes, yes it is.”

“Fuckin’ lovely. And were these asparagus treated with the respect that asparagus deserves?”

“They are free-range asparagus, yes,” she would inform me.

“Lies! Deceit!” I would announce to the Versaces and Armanis in the room as they pause, pleasantly picking at the pasta salad, staring at the boy in leather in a snit.

“Don’t believe any of this!” I would demonstrate by flipping over trays in the salad bar. “It’s not like this normally! It’s all a show! Your children are starved here, and so is the staff! Now get out of my way. I wants me summa dat pasta and pass me that servin’ spoon I’s gonna haves me summa dat dere asparagus and I’s don’t be carin’ if it do make my piss smell lahk toxic ooze. Move on ovah, gramma…”

My rant could go on for hours, but I refrained from indulging because, well, I’d hate to lead anyone to believe that I’m a weird-o or something. You know.

All’s I know is that that Salad Lady has some ‘splainin’ to do, Lucy. Durned ingrates.