I chewed my lip. A familiar feast was set on the table before me. I scrutinized the hodgepodge of foods, continuing to question why these items were on the plate together. The main dish, a giant artichoke garnished with orange peels, paired with a side of cranberries. On the side: black coffee described as “complimentary”. I thought back to the contract. 

“Devour it all! For $20 an hour, our mouth-watering platters are carefully crafted to fill both your stomach and your heart! If you seek a challenge worth sinking your teeth into, look no further than our delectable selection of dishes. For only eight (plus) hours a day, we’ll make sure the food coma you’ll be fighting on your commute home leaves you sleeping like a baby. And for the most devoted: a succulent ribeye guaranteed on every plate! That is our promise to you. *note: Nothing in this contract restricts management’s right to assign or reassign duties and responsibilities, or payment at any time.”

With a sigh, I reached for the cranberries. That went down the easiest. The fruit gushed sourness and bitterness, causing my face to scrunch as I looked around. Everyone approached their plates in their own way. The snap of artichokes and rip of the orange peels told as much. In the distance, I could see those in the Voracious Veterans section on all fours, tearing into their plates. The assortment of foods the veterans enjoyed was similar to what the newcomers endured, but the volume was unfathomable. The perks of being a veteran though, meant you got a steak. It was both burnt and somehow raw. Regardless, the sight of the steak made my mouth water, and I wasn’t the only one who took notice of the boon. Plenty of those who started in my group of Famished Freshmen admired the Veterans, some of them imitating their feral poses before digging in. But watching them eat like that just made my stomach turn.

I had told myself I could eat just about anything for 20 dollars an hour and 40 hours a week. I’m sure plenty of others felt the same. But a couple of them quit because they couldn’t handle the portion sizes. Others got separated because they took too many “appetite recovery” days.

I didn’t fully grasp just how backbreaking a job like this could be. 

“You need to eat at least 100 cranberries a day.”

“We’re reducing the time you can spend resting your jaws from 1 hour to 30 minutes after training.”

“If you don’t eat your artichoke, that is grounds for correction.” 

We just received another stipulation yesterday.

“If you don’t eat at least 15 full plates a day, you cannot go home until you’ve done so.” 

The contract suggested that we were in for an experience that was satisfying, and gratifying. Something that could feed the hunger of my stomach, mind, and pockets. But 15 plates? That was way beyond the realm of decadence, the gluttony a rule like that exuded was beyond my comprehension.

I munched the orange peel. It was bitter. It was bitter yesterday, and it will be bitter tomorrow.  Not like when I leave this place. When I get home, I’m back where I feel like I belong. In a room full of my favorite foods. A hibachi and chicken fried rice for dinner, a chicken and lamb gyro on the weekends. I’m free to spend that time enjoying what matters to me, things that I’ve chosen for myself. Problem is, when I get home, I’m just not hungry anymore. Is that how it’s supposed to work? What’s the point in eating anything if I can’t enjoy it? Any and all hunger I had for just about anything else is gone. Not because I don’t want it, or that I don’t love it, but because I’m just not hungry anymore.  I thought I was eating, but somewhere a part of me was consumed too.

We were encouraged to ask the Veterans questions.

I only had one: “Does the food ever taste better?” 

One replied matter-of-factly: “No, not really. But you get used to it.” 

I was mortified. Get used to it? What type of answer was that? 

Sure, I need to eat, but I want to taste. What good is a meal full of bitters, day in and day out? Is that all that awaits me after 40 years—a charred, halfhearted ribeye? I deserve Wagyu. A choice cut of meat, marbled with the most beautiful fat you’ve ever seen, delectable and melting in your mouth. I mean, don’t we all? I’d even settle for a nice tomahawk, at least the flavor would be there. If I gotta flap my gums day in and day out, just to consume, they could at least try a little harder to make things seem worth it. I mean, imagine if you could enjoy this every day:

The aroma of a bubbling cheese pizza as it approaches your table. The heat fogging up your glasses, the cheese eager to undress itself, to reveal the complex sauce beneath. The crunch of masterfully browned crust when you take a bite, and another, and another. You’ve experienced a taste of true perfection, and the sleep that comes after is sound, not like the exhaustion and queasy feeling that follows from eating 15 plates of artichoke. 

And so here I sit, fork in hand, feeling every bit as sleepy as I did five hours ago when I got back home. I made myself a plate of the things I loved, of the things I chose for myself, and intended to indulge on my own terms. To allow these my own discretion to wash away the bitterness that took root in my mouth. My appetite for higher flavors abounds. 

I hope that one day, I could eat like this, and only like this. 

Because at this rate, I think I might vomit.