A Food Farewell
I’ve been a student here at SAS for 15 years now—long enough to see superintendents change, the west fields bulldozed and reborn as a brand new elementary school building, and administrators in and out like clockwork. Long enough to see COVID come and go, my friends and classmates drift in and out, and witness the tragic replacement of Hoe Brothers Catering in the high school with the soulless overlord Sodexo. As I look back at my time at the ECC, Elementary, Middle, and now high school, mealtime has quietly been the backbone of many fond memories. As I retrace the breadcrumbs of my high school career, they lead me to the lunch table.
It all started in the Early Childhood Center (ECC), where I fondly remember my preschool and pre-k teachers. Every morning, my mom would send me on my way with a white plastic bag filled with fruits to share during our morning snack. We’d sit criss-cross (applesauce) around the carpet, holding multicolored IKEA plates, stabbing at sliced fruits with plastic sporks. Unlike the rest of our ECC days, where we were constantly hand-held through every activity, morning snacktime was oddly independent. For these brief ten minutes each morning, we were left to ourselves, just some three- and four-year-olds munching on fruit and having the aimless (though I am sure they were very important in the moment), wonderful conversations that only kids can have. I remember loving the crunch of apples, puckering at the tang of oranges, and still, to this day, remember how much I hated the taste and texture of dragon fruit.
A few hours later, lunch came on bright red plastic trays, usually mac and cheese, some veggies, and a carton of Marigold HL milk. On one unforgettable day, I returned from the bathroom to find my arch nemesis of pre-k sucking on my red water bottle. Due to cooties, of course, I never used that water bottle again. While eating lunch, the unfamiliar, large, and loud bodies of high schoolers would pass by as we sat on the first floor of the high school cafeteria. We’d wave eagerly, sticking out our hands, trying to get high-fives from the towering figures as if they were celebrities passing through. I never paused to think that one day, I’d become one of them.
Elementary school came next. We moved all the way across campus and finally got a cafeteria of our own. It smelled vaguely of ammonia, had hideous lime-green painted walls, and was dimly lit. I didn’t care, though, because for the first time, I had choices: sandwiches, pasta, and the Hoe Brother’s weird pizza (tomato sauce on thick bread) contraption. I felt proud each day carrying my tray to my spot, where lunch quickly turned into a strategy meeting about recess. We’d plan out who was on which soccer team, call dibs on who had to be a shark first in sharks and minnows, or boast about who was the best at the monkey bars.
By middle school, food became currency. We finally were granted permission to use the huge middle school cafeteria—gorumet dining in our minds. There was a ramen bar, ice cream freezer, and so, so many choices. I remember my friends and I getting hooked on Apple Sourz within the first week of third grade. We’d nibble through the outer ice layer and wiggle around the jelly center. Building upon elementary school, lunch was a performance of growing up. Choosing what to eat became our act of self-definition. And we truly thought we had reached the epitome of cuisine until we discovered Subway and Baja Fresh in the high school cafeteria, which devastated us. Suddenly, we had a good reason to look forward to high school. In the meantime, we begged our teachers to let us earn the rare, coveted prize of getting to go to high school for lunch. And after school, we’d sprint down to the high school café, racing to grab smoothies, drinks, or leftover pizza slices before the high schoolers cleaned them out.
Before we could reap the benefits of high school, like delicious footlongs and nachos, COVID came. At first, its effects trickled down to us as rumors—older 7th and 8th graders whispered that Subway and Baja were shutting down. We brushed it off, hoping that it wasn’t true. But soon enough, the truth hit: Sodexo was taking over the entire high school cafeteria. Or once-bright visions of high school dimmed quickly, clouded further by the miserable lunch conditions of Singapore pandemic life. Suddenly, we were forced to socially distance during the most important social hour of the day. Students had to bring food from home or settle for the few bland options still being served. Lunch as we knew it was gone. We ate in classrooms, 1.5 meters apart, silent.
High school began no better. I sat upstairs in the cafeteria on the first day, only to be scolded by an upperclassman. Apparently, the second-floor cafeteria was off-limits to freshmen. The food was no consolation either. Long lines snaked endlessly for mediocre Sodexo meals. I still remember the day a Sodexo surveyor approached our table to ask about the food quality. I pulled out my phone and showed her a photo of the moldy burger I’d been served the day before.
And although the menus never got better, the lines never got shorter, and the best option they had—the sandwich bar—disappeared one day, the atmosphere I vaguely remembered before COVID slowly began to return. As restrictions began to ease towards the end of my ninth-grade year, masks came off, social distancing was no longer required, and large groups could once again gather. The cafeteria buzzed with life. We found our spots again. Friend groups formed and routines emerged. We chilled in the cafeteria before and between classes, pulling tables together to watch NBA games.
By junior year, we ditched Sodexo entirely. Instead, we used Grab to order everything from Açaí bowls, chicken rice, and ironically, Subway. We still have our go-to favorites: chicken katsu and beef combo from Block 17, fried rice from Wok Hey, McDonald's for when we want something quick, and YukiDon’s Japanese food.
Looking back on my time at SAS as a senior on the edge of graduation, I realize it was never really about the food. Not the red trays or popsicles, not even the moldy Sodexo burger. It was about the people I sat with, the chaos we schemed, and the friendships formed over food. Though I’m salty about Sodexo crashing the lunch party, I’ll never forget the sweet taste of apples shared with my preschool friends—sticky fingers and wobbly sporks. In the end, it was never just about the food. It was about growing up, one meal at a time.