During the great and terrible reign of Bon Appétit, there was a small sliver of light amongst the undercooked Commons chicken, disintegrating paper straws and ungodly hours. This light was a warm hug on a cold day, a spicy hot take on a boring classic and a clash of flavor that came different in each package. This dear friend of mine is no longer with us, but her legacy can be felt even as Bon Appétit moves to the great university in the sky. I am of course referring to the late Ms. Buffalo Chicken Wrap on the Café menu.
I remember my first encounter with Ms. Buffalo. My first-year roommate and I were scouring the menu for something that didn’t seem poisonous. We needed spice with protein; we needed something that felt healthier than it was; we needed something with enough kick to make us drink more water. Desperate for advice, we went to the most credible source we could find: Yik Yak.
Try the buffalo chicken wrap! they screamed. It will change your life!
Her shell was soggy and she was stuffed with enough lettuce to call her a salad. She had about three pieces worth of chicken and more sauce than a ketchup bottle could hold. But my relationship with Ms. Buffalo was much like Tom Cruise’s with Scientology. Once I had been introduced to such a lifestyle, experienced the adrenaline and the pride of associating with Ms. Buffalo, I simply could not turn back. We established a routine; until the fateful day when my Culinary Cash ran out, she would visit me every lunch hour. We’d share a laugh, drink water and appreciate each other’s company.
Ms. Buffalo would vacation often; I think she enjoyed the stressful mischief her stints of absence would cause. She’d jump to different spots on the menu, make me hunt her down like she was in a Where’s Waldo puzzle. She’d cheat on me with other customers, dress up better for them with more chicken and a better sauce ratio. But I knew I was her favorite. Eventually, no matter the time or distance, I would return just as she would.
This was better for the both of us, our continued interaction. I went two weeks without seeing her once. In that time, I broke a bone, dyed my hair a questionable color and failed a test about Plato’s Republic. She was the other set of footprints in the sand; she was the reason to get up in the morning. She kept me going. And now, she has gone yet again, emancipated at last from her roots, and I fear she does not plan another return.
Ms. Buffalo was a warrior of the Café Menu. She walked so Mr. Mediterranean Bowl could run and Bon Appétit could sprint (far, far away). In the heat of lockdowns and elections and finals, she was there. She was more than a simple wrap of lettuce and chicken and hot sauce. She was a friend, a good friend.
I still think about her sometimes when I’m building my make-shift Commons sandwiches and mourning over my other recent loss of St. Panini Press. I wonder if she misses me, or if she is making better friends elsewhere. I wonder if she ever looked back, or if, maybe, this was another test. Maybe she is planning yet another resurrection. If so, Ms. Buffalo, know your loyal follower and trusted admirer awaits our next interaction.