I had a dream that I got hit on at the Ratty salad bar.
An at-night dream, an aspirational dream, both—who’s to say? The point is, I’ve become oddly hopeful about being picked up while I’d scooping lettuce and soggy tomatoes into a bowl on my frequent 3 PM Ratty runs. And by “oddly hopeful,” I mean I’ve envisioned the whole exchange:
SARAH and SUITOR (a.k.a. an attractive male in a sweater) both reach for the mixed-lettuce tongs. Their fingers brush, a jolt of electricity ignites. The air smells like shredded carrots and red onion.
SUITOR: Oh, you were in line before me—you, uh, you go for it. (He blushes easily, which is endearing, and gives off a vegetarian vibe, which is also endearing. He seems like he plays acoustic guitar, but not like a pretentious art boy.)
SARAH: (clumsily dumping lettuce into her bowl) Thank you, uh, here you go. (She hands her SUITOR the tongs and giggles like she does in most situations).
SUITOR: So, uh, do you come here often?
SARAH: Yeah. Yeah actually I do. Whenever I talk to my dad on the phone, he tells me to have a “big salad.” I feel like I owe him that, you know?
SUITOR: (Places 6 croutons onto his salad, which SARAH thinks is the perfect amount; she swoons) My dad and I—we always had salads together. I guess it was like, kind of our thing. That, and watching the Three Stooges.
SARAH: (Flirtatiously, whilst putting heaps of mozzarella balls onto her otherwise healthy veggies) My succulents are named after the Three Stooges.
SUITOR: I study plant biology, what are the odds? I’m also a gourmet chef, produce a comedy web series and smell like laundry all of the time. (He pours a perfect amount of balsamic vinaigrette onto his leafy masterpiece).
SARAH: I’ll take that from you. You know, I prefer balsamic here because–
SARAH + SUITOR: –I have really high standards for Italian. (Their gazes meet. The beige walls really bring out SUITOR’S eyes. Music swells.)
SUITOR: I’m conveniently sitting right over there—care to join me?
We get married and serve only salad at our wedding. It’s beautiful.
Of course, this got me thinking about the prospects of getting hit on at other Brown eateries. Don’t we all want a side of flirting with our spicy withs? Let’s face it, Jo’s is designed to kindle a budding romance—the smoky fumes, the shared camaraderie over waiting for grilled cheese, the vaguely fluorescent ambience. Just imagine:
SARAH approaches the cash register balancing a half quesadilla, iced tea and cookie in her arms. She dumps all of her food on the counter, fumbles for her ID and then looks up, making eye contact with the cashier, SUITOR (aka ANOTHER attractive male in a sweater). She decides that he has a nice face. SARAH hands over her card.
SUITOR: Credit?
SARAH: (Does a double take—it should be credit and points!) Oh, I think you forgot to include the cookie.
SUITOR: That’s on me. (He winks without being creepy). But I totally respect your honesty. You know, so many people would have left it unspoken. Your truthfulness is so appreciated, and makes me think that we could have a really healthy and functional relationship built on open, consistent communication. And chocolate chip cookies.
SARAH: (Likes the sound of that) I like the sound of that.
SUITOR: (With a closed mouth smile) Hey, I’m getting off soon. I’m playing in a Talking Heads tribute show in an hour. You should come by. I can make you a cup of tea after and we can share our respective life stories in a positive and accepting environment.
We get married and serve only half quesadillas, iced tea and cookies at our wedding. It’s beautiful.*
*(N.B.: Jo’s is a risky environment. You might stumble into Friday night mayhem, and the obligatory band of boys with half of the buttons of their shirts mysteriously undone congregating around the grill, having just ordered three turkey burgers each. Sure, you may admire their appetites/assortment of bucket hats, but they will be blocking the pickles and you know that in five minutes they will be wrestling each other to the ground and will not have the decency to clean up their half-eaten mozz sticks. You do not want them to talk to you. You just want your damn pickles.)
And finally, there’s the beloved Blue Room, the treat yo self capital of Brown, the perfect place to pick up a sweetie and a sweet treat. It’s the closest thing on campus to a café setting, where so many generic, decent-enough meet-cutes happen. Like this one:
SARAH enters the Blue Room, having just purchased a French Toast muffin. But what—it can’t be! An unoccupied Blue Room booth!? This is what Lizzie McGuire meant when she said that this is what dreams are made of. SARAH subtly runs to said booth, only to find that another human has reached it at the exact same time. It is SUITOR (a.k.a. yet ANOTHER attractive male in a sweater.) They look at each other, expectantly.
SUITOR: (With a twinkle in his eyes, and a smile softer than his sweater) I think we got here at the exact same time.
SARAH: (With dramatic emphasis) What a dilemma!
SUITOR: Well, I think it would only be fair if we shared this booth.
SARAH: That seems like a universally agreeable plan.
(SARAH and SUITOR both slide into the booth, looking suave and coordinated as ever. They simultaneously pull out copies of The Iliad. They look at each other, recognizing fate in motion).
SUITOR: I see we prefer the same literature. And let me just say, Helen of Troy’s got nothing on you. (SARAH overlooks the arguable weakness of this pickup line because of the classical overtones).
SARAH: We both like booths, we both like Homer. How extraordinary, I wonder what else we have in common.
SUITOR engages SARAH in a discussion about their interests, making it obvious that they share the same cultural tastes, life values, and affinity for witty banter.
We get married and serve only French Toast muffins. It’s beautiful.
Of course, all of these scenarios are highly improbable. Blue Room booths will never be attainable, and it probably goes against BUDS policy to give someone a free cookie. But I hope my salad bar dream is an omen of good things to come, a sign that I should loiter by the lettuce to give off the impression that I am fun and flirty and super healthy, like those really happy women eating salad in stock photos. If I can’t find true love at a Brown eatery, at least I can become a really happy woman eating salad.
I guess that doesn’t sound so bad.
Image via.
