By Silence Doless

Let’s be honest, Dutch Treats is pretty gross. Yes, we all go there at 2 a.m. for a sandwich, but if it wasn’t so close, would we? For those wondering, the answer is definitely no. Because where else would we allow ourselves to be charged upwards of $7 for a sandwich which has more complex bread than contents? This is some scary stuff.

Seriously, Dutch Treats sandwiches look like they could beat you up. On the cover of last week’s Chronicle, a story was burst wide-open about a student finding a piece of rope in his sandwich. As much as I feel for the kid, I couldn’t help but think that the rope was an improvement. At least the rope was edible. This is not the first time Dutch Treats has served up something of less-than-acceptable quality.

A couple of weeks ago I decided to buy one of their pre-made, boxed vegetarian dumpling meals. Bad move. To think that Dutch Treats could get any food right, much less vegetarian food was just silly. Needless to say, the dumplings were rancid. Now, for me, this is a particularly disturbing case because all Dutch Treats had to do was refrigerate the thing, then throw it out if it expired. From my brief experience, it tasted like they did neither.

This is not to blame everything on the employees. In fact, many are really nice. However they can’t make up for the fact that the food is terrible. Little-known fact, with even less truth: Lackmann puts laxatives in its food; otherwise, the human body would be unable to digest it.

You know how it goes. You’re sitting in your dorm room at 2 a.m. either watching TV, trying to write a paper or abusing a substance. Usually it’s all three. Suddenly you realize you’re hungry. Really, really hungry. So you contemplate your options: You’re broke, so you can’t eat off campus and wouldn’t want to walk around Hempstead at night anyway, but everything is closed on campus. Well, almost everything.

Whining in agony, you try your best not to think about it but it’s too late. You’re hungry enough to eat at Dutch. Hanging your head in shame, you slouch over to Dutch Treats. As soon as you walk in you immediately notice a crowd of drunken people yelling incoherently. If you don’t notice this, you are one of those drunken people and should probably stop yelling. Or at least figure out what the hell you’re saying. You also notice a bizarre, implacable stench wafting from every direction. If you don’t notice that, you’re dead.

You get a sandwich, some chips, a pint of ice cream, a frozen mac-and-cheese for later, a candy bar for right now and a soda. Then you feel guilty and look for something healthy, but there is nothing in the store. You go to your room, eat ravenously and, regardless of gender, feel like you’re pregnant with Lackmann’s fatass baby. You swear you’ll never go back to Dutch again, but the next time you get hungry at night, you’re there.

So what can we do in the face of this culinary monstrosity? The only thing we can do; start carrying lightsabers. Then you can feel safe getting food off campus; or at least be able to defend yourself if your Dutch Treats sandwich tries to mug you.

Rabinowitz Update!

The man’s eyes quiver in their sockets, puffy purple lids drooping. His lip curls, showing decaying teeth and a line of drool seeps from the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t know where he is.” He mumbles. The Captain punches him in the face, and he sags against the bar.

“Tell me what you know, you blithering crustacean!” Snaps the Captain, massaging his knuckles.

“I said I don’t know anything.” The man moans.

“We’ll see about that. Mr. Doless, bring out the tapes of Rabinowitz and Bill Clinton!”

I open my coat, pull out the tapes and walk towards the man, my shadow darkening his face.

“No, not that; anything but that. He’s-he’s off the coast of Gibraltar in a yacht.”

“Much obliged.”

The Captain and walk out, snuffing the candle as we leave.