The cafeteria inside the State Legislative Building has been on my list of places-to-try since I started writing this column. It’s about as hidden as a hidden gem gets—literally underground, in the basement of the marble fortress in Raleigh where the General Assembly convenes.
But I’ve procrastinated on my visit, because government facilities give me the willies. I always feel like someone’s going to tell me I’m in the wrong place.
Sure enough, as I approach the Legislative Building on a 98 degree afternoon for my long-postponed trip, I’m rebuffed: there’s a sign stressing the importance of using the visitor entrance, but none of the doors I see appear to be that. One says MEMBERS AND STAFF. Another says EXIT ONLY. A third door lists hours.
I try not to panic, wandering around for the proper entrance until I’m all the way on the opposite side of the building. Here, I find a silent debate being conducted through window signage. In one window: ABORTION HURTS WOMEN. A few steps further: PROTECT LEGAL, SAFE ABORTION. Next window: an image of a man’s fist dapping up a baby’s fist, with the words NORTH CAROLINA STANDS FOR LIFE. These must be the offices of legislators. I keep walking.
My shirt has by now completely soaked through with sweat, and I feel a rush of relief that I didn’t dress too nicely. I went back and forth about it this morning—the Legislative Building is a formal environment; a cafeteria is a casual environment; today is the hottest day on Earth—and ended up splitting the difference with slacks and a cropped tee. For a touch of Americana, I also donned a belt with a big brass bulls-head buckle.
Rounding a corner, I find myself back where I started. I’m surprised there aren’t more people around. It’s supposedly a momentous day here at the Legislative Building: the General Assembly is expected to pass the budget it was supposed to pass a year ago. I expected a buzz of activity. Instead I’ve encountered just one person, a man so preoccupied with peeling off his suit jacket that I felt uncomfortable stopping him for directions.
God, it’s hot. I peer again at the text on the doors. Under the list of hours, in the same font as the hours, I see the word VISITORS.
In I go. Nine seconds later, I set off the metal detector.
“Probably the belt,” a security guard says, eying my waist.
After wanding me down, the guard points me in the direction of the staircase that will take me into the dungeon that houses the cafeteria. I make a quick stop in the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. When I look up through wet lashes, I notice a sticker on the mirror: DON’T GET AN ABORTION. No, wait—I wipe my eyes—it says YOU LOOK AMAZING.
Fortified, I walk down the stairs and into a parking garage. Every legislator’s license plate is stamped with their district number, which strikes me as kind of cute. I don’t see the cafeteria, so I shuffle past rows of cars until windows with warm light come into view. The sensation is that I have died and am now in the underworld, going to a diner. I step inside.
Immediately, I’m assessed by a fellow soul, a man in a suit who’s showing the salad bar to two people who appear to be interns.
“What are you guys gonna get? This is exciting!” he says to the interns, then, seeing me, points.
“She’s not excited,” he says. “She’s looking at me like I’m weird.”
I smile nervously and grab a tray. The salad bar, a long stainless steel island, takes up most of the room. Along the back wall there’s a buffet of mains and sides that rotate daily; today’s spread includes chicken casserole, stuffed bell peppers, brussels sprouts, sweet potato casserole, and mashed potatoes. There are also soups and cornbread, and, at the end of the line, shelves of cake slices.
The prices are bonkers low: entrées are $5. Sides, soups, and desserts are between $1 and $2.
I get chicken casserole, brussels sprouts, sweet potatoes, and beef soup, then stare at the cake slices—there are at least six different flavors—until I hear a voice: “Get ‘em all.”
My intrusive thought has been spoken aloud by a kitchen staffer on the other side of the shelves. We both giggle. He tells me I should get the honey bun, pointing to a yellow layer cake shot through with cinnamon.
The payment station is on the way out, so after filling a cup of water at the soda fountain, I head right into the dining room. No confusion about signage here; a private space for legislators is clearly marked.
The public side has the homey vibe of an IHOP. I take a seat at a two-top and pull out my camera.
“Is that for Instagram?”
Another voice! This one’s coming from a dapper gentleman in a plaid sport coat and glasses, sitting with two other people at a table near mine.
I tell him that I’m working on a newspaper article. He says I need to come back on Tuesday to try the fried chicken.
“What do y’all do here?” I ask the group, gesturing toward the ceiling.
“Shhhhh,” the dapper man says, bringing his finger to his lips. “You should also try the hamburger patties. They do a good job with those.”
“The hamburger patties,” the man sitting beside him affirms, nodding.
I turn to my tray. The food is so rich with provenance that I find myself narrating my bites in the voice of the region each dish hails from. The chicken casserole, unmistakably made with cream of mushroom, transports me to a potluck in Minnesota. Well, that’s not half bad, I think (high praise, in the Midwest). The brussels sprouts, soft and a tinge gray, remind me of a chat I once had with Bill Smith of Crook’s Corner where Smith lamented to me that nobody cooks vegetables to death anymore. Honey, somebody here still does.
Speaking of honey, it’s time for some cake. Well, I’ll be. It’s a honey bun in a Sunday dress.
As I eat, I eavesdrop on my three neighbors, trying to suss out what their jobs are. Given the budget vote, I figure work is bound to come up.
It doesn’t. They talk about food for the entire time: Old Bay sauce, Grands biscuits, how to cook eggs.
“Nice hot pan, olive oil, a little butter,” the dapper man tells his tablemates, then turns to me: “You get all that?”
Nobody else in earshot seems to be talking about politics either. At the tables around me, most people are chatting about their plans for the Fourth of July, which is in two days.
I dig into my sweet potatoes. The dapper man stands to leave.
“Young lady,” he calls over to me once more, stacking his plates. “You need to try the banana cake.”
I give him a salute.
A few minutes later, I head toward the exit myself, paying at the register. My total is $14.29 with tax and tip.
Back in the parking garage, I open my phone to a wall of Slack notifications; the budget has passed.
To comment on this story, email [email protected].
You must be logged in to post a comment.