In Defense of John Jay

I should preface this article by saying that I am by no means an expert on John Jay Dining Hall. I started the semester with 150 meals and three months later have yet to dip below 100. Having run out of dining dollars a week ago, I am now on to my Flex Account. I even have a “usual” at Flex-friendly Chipotle (granted, there are only about three things one can order at Chipotle, but it makes me feel special).

There are those who would be quick to attribute my situation to John Jay’s paltry powers of attraction. It’s true, to a degree—I’m not sure the sirens could convince me to crash my ship into the dining hall’s quesadilla casserole. Still, the more realistic explanation is that I rarely eat breakfast, have classes during much of lunch, and just can’t make it there every day for dinner. To be honest, I like John Jay, which is an opinion rare enough on this campus that I thought it warranted a few hundred words.

First things first——it would be silly to condemn John Jay without considering whether or not it achieves its purpose as a dining hall. The most fundamental goal of a dining hall is to feed the inhabitants of the University to which it belongs. At first consideration this might sound like a simple task, but given Columbia’s diverse community, which brings with it diverse tastes, allergies and religious or personal restrictions, the job gets tougher. While it may seem like Dining Service’s effort to find new ways to cook the same chicken is the failed culinary version of Around the World in Eighty Days, the fact is that it is actually a thoughtful attempt to accommodate all of Columbia’s varied students. I may not like orange coconut chicken cooked by the metric ton, but if there is one thing I have learned at Columbia it’s that there is no “normal,” and I am not the standard around which the world revolves (shucks). So of course it is easy to curse John Jay’s prepared food, but if we tried to base the menu on any one person’s tastes, say something similar to what he or she was served at home, there would be a few thousand objections within the hour. The point being­—and this is something the vast majority of Columbia students do already—if chicken stew is not for you, then just go with the pizza, or pasta, or burgers, or cereal, and wait until fried chicken and macaroni and cheese are back on the menu.

Delicious soul-food aside, the intention of the dining hall may be to feed the masses, but as a first-year it also serves another purpose. Meal plans are mandatory for entering Columbia students, and John Jay is the only place to go to use them. Like the Core, this lack of choice creates a common area over which we can bond. Also like the Core, some of this bonding may take the form of shared contempt for the rotting corpses we are forced to consume, but we are ultimately happy for the experience, and keep coming back for more. I know that the beginning of my relationships with two of my closest friends here took place over John Jay’s General Tso’s chicken directly after we learned just how sexy consent is (extremely, apparently).

An even more common occurrence is dinner with floor-mates. There are those who can pull off eating alone, but for the rest of us, not wanting to look friendless in John Jay is a perfect excuse for some floor bonding. Even better, those long tables and lack of alternate seating opens up the possibility for forced contact with that girl in your econ class who laughed when you made the joke about the Laffer curve. And you know the hopelessly dark wood paneling and ornate chandeliers make the mood right.

Of course it may be a little much to suggest that the dining hall is the right place for a date, and I am far from innocent in my own complaints about our oak oasis. Nonetheless, we do play up the negatives a bit. But that’s Columbia—our cynicism inspires us to complain, but as soon as an outside voice takes up the criticism, we go on the defensive. After all, it’s our orange coconut chicken. The truth is John Jay is not so bad—it serves the needs of every student, and is about as constant as death and taxes. More importantly, along with the steps, it serves as one of the very few communal places for students in the University. We are simply spoiled with our off-campus options, and have lost a little perspective. After all, there are very few universities that have great and (relatively) cheap pizza, burritos, falafels, burgers, sandwiches, bagels, baked goods, sushi, fried rice, and ice cream, just to name a few food options, within three blocks of campus.

So it’s getting to be dinner time, and I have some meals to kill. I’ll be the one alone in the corner with the sad eyes–—I only hope they have macaroni and cheese.

The author is a Columbia College first-year. He is an associate editorial page editor.