Vegetarianism: It’s practical, and when done with panache, can be both good-tasting and good for your body. Magnanimity: While less practical for college students, it feels good and is also good for others.
Both are tenets championed by the Hare Krishnas, of which every representative I’ve encountered in Gainesville has never faltered in the forgotten art of practicing what you preach; who, as a collective group, have never let themselves be subject to the indignity of hypocrisy. A good group of good people. Good for them — someone’s got to do it.
I owe my enlightenment to their percussively proficient, ponytailed pamphleteers. I owe my satiation to the fruitfulness — though I’ve not seen fruit on the menu; it’s quite all right as I’m not particularly big on fruit — of their seemingly endless bounty provided to the scholarly every weekday from 11 a.m. to 1:30 p.m. on the Plaza of the Americas.
Life has been made easier. No longer am I subject to the sneers of meatless peers when group dining; the weight of the ever-burdensome pretension tossed at you by your vegetarian friends who deride the meat on your plate but squirm with yearning for just a bite. My usual choice of sauce-laden gristle has been replaced with spaghetti, ersatz meatballs and a side of guilt-free clear consciousness.
And it feels great. Again, I can’t express how grateful I am for the altruism of the aforementioned group.
But now that I’ve made my veneration of the Krishna apparent, I do have a bone to pick.
My girlfriend (read: friend who is female) and I had just entered the outskirts of the Plaza of the Americas between noon and 1 p.m. on a hot and humid Wednesday — spaghetti day, my personal favorite. Long but swiftly moving lines greeted us as jingling bells and spiritual ululating grew louder. Cheerfully, we welcomed the prospect of good eatin’ and fell in to join the crowd.
As the line moved forward and tickets were traded for paper plates, I was before my friend (as the concept of "ladies first" seems a bit misogynistic) and greeted the first dispenser of the meal that day with over-the-top salutations, attempting to match the good nature of our servers. He smiled, acknowledging my excessive friendliness, tonged out the noodles and moved on. Then came the ladler in all her aproned glory, pouring on a generous helping of some venerable vegan imitation of meat sauce. Thank you. A handful of tortilla chips were soon put on my plate. The chip master and I exchanged grins. Then came the penultimate element of the equation: those fresh, succulent greens guaranteeing I had fulfilled my duties to the food pyramid that day, dished out gracefully and amicably. Finally the coda, the inimitable salad dressing bringing all of the plate’s individual parts together in harmony.
But wait… I had only been given a light squirt of dressing for my superfluous greens. Is that it? I wanted to ask for more but I’d moved out of the line already, and some lingering proctor of the line had already nodded a tactful smile at me, which all at once said, "enjoy your meal and move along please." I see my girlfriend behind me, her spirits crushed by the same rationing of salad dressing that just befell me. What is happening here? Who is this one with the squirt bottle? Are they one of you? An impostor, perhaps, who has infiltrated the ranks of our Krishna friends only to destroy dreams and create talent manqués out of us by scantily dressing our salads?
It happened again. And again sometime after that. And while I can make my way through a plate of Krishna lunch, including seconds, while my lady friend regales our lunch hour with tales of her intestinal woe brought upon by the oiliness of some of the other week’s dishes, I can hardly stomach the lack of salad dressing.
Nonetheless, I’ll be there tomorrow, bright and late, ticket in hand, Oliver Twist in mind.
Justin Ford is a Santa Fe journalism junior. His column appears on Tuesdays.
