Sampling food is a lifestyle. I learned it from my parents, who would take us to Costco on weekends as a family meal out. “Money doesn’t grow on trees,” they’d say, which is a quote I’m pretty sure they made up. “You have to work hard to get it. So why not take the freebie every once in a while?” And like the Artful Dodger from “Oliver Twist” (who is an objectively better character than Oliver—come at me hateeerrrsss #Dickenswars), I took this message to heart.
Here’s the beauty of sampling: it’s not stealing, because the providers are giving you the food directly. They want you to try it, to say “mmm–mmm, what a delicious product! I shall buy this post–haste!” The thing is, like everyone who doesn’t live in the Marvel comics universe (and to those who do: see a therapist?), they don’t have the power to guarantee you’ll keep up your end of the bargain. That fun–sized Auntie Anne’s cinnamon–sugar pretzel doesn’t come with a contract. This is America.
But I know this is a douchebag way of thinking, so I usually set limits; yes, I’ll take the sample, but only one, because I’m a good person. Plus, I was in girl scouts for like ten years, so clearly my moral compass is pretty spot–on. But when it comes to food offered at Penn, I don’t see why I should stop myself from going crazy, because isn’t this all sort of mine? Tuition is ridiculously high, and other than classes it goes towards things like food, so by the transitive property of math (or something; I’m a Classics major), haven’t I already bought this aforementioned food?
So, if I’m hungry, I’ll sample the soups at Houston to my heart’s delight. Quantity of course varies: before a meal, one; a snack in between classes, two; as an actual dinner, five or so. Nobody looks. Nobody notices.
And I know I’m not the only one doing it. As I silently lurk around Houston Market, pretending to be interested in whatever faux–gourmet dish of the week they’re offering (“Comfort Food” is not a valid international cuisine, Houston) while I nibble on pieces of turkey chili, I see others. In the salad line. Perusing the pizzas. Chasing Amy G’s favorite sushi. It is a common crime, a universal sin. We all sample.
Except for that one time I stuffed a stack of the plastic cups into my backpack and used them to self–sample mac and cheese at ABP. That was probably stealing.
