cafeteria - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
This cafeteria is one of my favourite corners of heaven. It is where the chattering chefs can be heard from the tables, joking and teasing, or perhaps singing loudly and out of tune. The food is simple and the decor plain. I love it for the people, for the conversations we have and the routine of seeing one another, the chance to make these casual bonds. All I know is that when the sun rises, when those first rays tell me that the day has already become a vibrant scene, I'm looking forward to being there.
The cafeteria was run by an ex-army cook who loved bleach. Even the aroma of the mediocre food was overpowered by the scent of it. If you tried to lick a plate or a tray it would taste of bleach too. But at least there was a lot of food and it all arrived piping hot on the dot of noon when we all filed in to get it. She even did stuff like tacos. Sometimes I would try to sneak some food out of the cafeteria and devour it away from the bleach smell, then it didn't taste half bad. It's amazing the effect that smell had on the taste buds.
The cafeteria was like a cemetery for melamine. It covered the counters. It covered the tables. And of course, it peeled at the edges revealing blackened sticky plywood beneath. The servers would have done well in a funeral home for all the smiling they did. The food had a greyish quality - washed out and overcooked. The vegetables were mush, the meat was chewy and the puddings were dry. The children filed past, and even though their stomachs rumbled, they were as enthusiastic as slaughterhouse pigs.
The cafeteria is a cacophony of loud chatter, each table a cosseted huddle of people raising their voices to be heard above the din. The food is secondary to the information that is exchanged here. Over the over-salted fries alliances are formed and gossip traded like poker chips. As I stand in the queue for my plate of nothing fresh I cast my eyes about as if in a wandering daydream but really I'm taking note of who associates with who. If I'm going to get the information I need it's imperative I make the right introductions, know who to snub and who to flatter.
The cafeteria was really the school gym. A hatch connecting it to the kitchen was opened and the smell of chips and baked beans came wafting in. We lined up across the back-wall with brown formica trays in our hands, kicking the wall with our toes, or leaning on it as we shuffled along. The lunches weren't much to look at but the desserts were great! Long donuts filled with cream, yum! Then we sat around octagonal tables and stuffed ourselves.
To describe the school cafeteria and it's food was like describing your favourite shade of graphite pencil. In the end it really didn't matter what you asked for or what you wanted, you'd get the same over-cooked grey offering on it's grey plate with it's grey taste.
The high school cafeteria was empty except for the twenty tables that sat unoccupied, dirty beyond fixing. The sophomores entered; their chatter and excited laughter filling the building as they sat at their tables for lunch.
The cafeteria had once been the orangery of the manor. For what the food lacked in flavour it more than made up for in ambience. The children would file in, lacklustre and hungry, only to be transported back to the magnificence of the eighteen hundreds. The tables were antique, small as they would be in any fashionable cafe. With sunshine on their faces and a cool breeze blowing in from the fields, they revived over milk and cookies.
The design of the cafeteria had been more in the hands of the bean counters than the architect, that much was obvious. It was functional to the point of depression, which was ironic considering that was pretty much all the lunch ladies served. Every item was so saggy, so bland, it was depression served cold with a limp sneer. To make it even more special the plates were washed so heavily in bleach that it contaminated the food. On a good day it was the lesser of the flavour, on a bad day it was all the kids could taste.