Dining Hall-Gate

THERE are only two things in this world that journalists love more than their typewriters: a good scoop and a response from a reader. Just imagine, then, this reporter's glee when he received both in one day last week.

The letter's five co-authors were quite piqued by the accolade I gave to a recent dining hall meal. First of all, they wrote, the offering was "vile." They also urged The Crimson to end such idle reporting and engage in more probing analyses "in the spirit of Woodward and Bernstein."

I knew that those five students were on to something. Talk is cheap; what the Harvard populace really wants is some solid investigative reporting. And what better place to start than that shady organization known as Harvard Dining Services (HDS)?

Awakened by the letter's demands, my journalistic instincts took over. Why, I had to know, is the bread always stale? Why is the pasta so greasy? Why are the servers at the Harvard Union so surly? And for heaven's sake, what is a "Hoppin' John?"

The task seemed forbidding, so I sought out an ace Crimson reporter. "Scoop," I asked, "maybe you can explain it. I can't figure out why ice cream and jello are always available, but never a really juicy piece of fruit."

"I can't speak with you," Scoop waffled, "but you should speak with Deep Throat. He'll explain."

Deep Throat, I discovered, was working undercover at HDS (also known as "The Organization"). We met behind the milk dispenser at lunch one day.

To test my source's reliability, I asked him to repeat the "potato catechism." He lowered his voice and began, "O'Brien, lyonnaise, new potatoes, oven-broiled, mashed, skincredibles and home fries. Then back to O'Brien."

He was definitely my man.

"WHY is it," I asked Deep Throat, "that there are always several variations of soft drinks in my dining hall at dinner but only rarely fruit juice? What about those of us who don't like carbonation?"

"I'll tell you what I think," said Deep Throat. "The top bananas at HDS are more willing to serve inexpensive but non-nutritive iced tea or lemonade than orange or apple juice. Of course, this leaves the students either to squeeze the bone-dry oranges or just to contract scurvy."

"And I can't seem to understand," I continued, "the ridiculous policy of choices. Back at home, Mom doesn't make me choose between, say, chicken and egg rolls. She lets me have both."

Deep Throat paused. "I can still remember my days in the Union," he reminisced. "Whenever HDS served steak with mushroom topping, students who wanted only the mushrooms had to take both, and then throw the steak in the garbage on the way back to their seats. Lots of steaks were wasted because of these Alice-in-Wonderland rules."

"And don't forget the salad bar," Deep Throat sighed. "Wilted lettuce, wooden tomatoes, tasteless carrots. It's all so disheartening."

Deep Throat then offered some other inside knowledge of the Organization's methods. He explained, for example, how the HDS cooks casually apply oil to various dishes. Neither of us could fathom The Organization's motive in greasing our pasta as if it were a wheel bearing rather than a plate of noodles.

Pursuing this line of questioning, I queried Deep Throat about the sodium content of our meals. My source related some arterty-boggling numbers.

"Could they really not know that so much salt isn't healthful?" I asked.

"They just don't understand," said Deep Throat, "that once you put it in, it's impossible to remove. In an ideal world, The Organization would go very, very light on the salt and leave the seasoning to the individual."

THE evidence was nearly incontrovertible--HDS needs to improve a great deal before we, their customers, are satisfied. Before I returned to write my investigative blockbuster a la Woodward and Bernstein, I had to ask my source one final question.

"Just what goes into those chickwiches?" I whispered.

Deep Throat stammered, and spoke in a low, gravelly voice. A change seemed to come over him; his shoulders hunched, and jowls appeared where cheeks had once been.

"I," he responded, "am not a cook."