Fine Dining

This morning I read a fabulous post from one of my favorite authors, Tracie (please do yourself a favor and visit Squiggle Line Cafe — she’s wonderful). She wrote about lunchboxes from back in the day and just like that, I was transported.

Until Fourth Grade, I was the proud owner of a tin lunchbox featuring The Bugaloos — yes, that Saturday morning masterpiece brought to us by Sid and Marty Krofft. The lunchbox was embossed on the front in all its psychedelic glory. It had a metal hinge and clasp that could be heard opening from the other end of the cafeteria. There was no such thing as a quiet entrance when you carried The Bugaloos.

Inside sat the matching thermos — either filled with Campbell’s soup in the colder months or lemonade when the sun decided to show off. That lunchbox was more than a container. It was a status symbol. A conversation starter. A piece of personality.

It held a prime seat each day at Central Boulevard Elementary School, where thirty of your closest friends gathered around long tables under fluorescent lighting that did none of us any favors. Before we even took a bite, we would survey the scene. Who had what? Was there a Hostess cupcake in sight? Pretzels? A pudding cup? Occasionally — and I mean occasionally — a coveted trade would take place. Negotiations were swift. Serious. Binding.

And then there were the days when The Bugaloos stayed home at 36 Grant Avenue and I opted for cafeteria cuisine.

Oh, the confidence.

I would waltz right up to the lunch lady in her hairnet as if I had a reservation.

“I’ll have the special.”

Would you like a side salad with dressing, Miss Eastwood?

Why yes. Yes, I would, Mrs. Lunch Lady.

Back then, it felt like a five-star establishment. The round Friday pizza. The mystery-meat Mondays. That iceberg lettuce salad that I can still smell to this day (and not in a good way). But in the moment? It was divine. It was independence. It was grown-up.

Every meal was served on a sturdy melamine tray with tidy compartments — our very own version of a TV dinner. Everything in its place. Orderly. Predictable. Safe.

But nothing — and I mean nothing — compared to what happened when someone dropped their tray.

There was a stainless steel bucket outside the cafeteria doors where you deposited your used tray. Every now and then, someone would misstep. A sneaker would catch. A hand would slip. And down it went.

Crash.

The tray would hit the green tile floor with a dramatic smash, aluminum silverware scattering like confetti. The sound echoed off the walls.

Then came the silence.

Three… maybe four seconds of absolute stillness. A hush so complete you could hear your own heartbeat.

And then—

The eruption.

The entire cafeteria would leap to its feet in thunderous, stadium-worthy applause. The kind reserved for rock stars taking the stage. It was instantaneous and unanimous. A rite of passage. We always felt terrible for the unfortunate soul standing amid the carnage… but the applause? Legendary.

To this day, that memory makes me laugh out loud.

My dining experiences have certainly evolved over the years. I’ve enjoyed meals in beautiful restaurants with linen napkins and candlelight. I’ve tasted cuisine I couldn’t pronounce in cities far from Central Boulevard.

But none of it quite compares to those 42 minutes each school day when food and friendship sat side by side on a plastic tray.

Fine dining, indeed.

Sometimes the best restaurants in the world aren’t the ones with five stars — they’re the ones with fluorescent lights, round pizza, and a standing ovation you never saw coming.