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To the Editor of the CRIMSON:
In the stomachs of those who have never experienced an Eliot House repast, there may lurk the false assumption that Lowell House has a monopoly on worm-ridden fish, bad eggs, wizened grape-fruit, oily orange-juice, moribund chops, all-wool pancakes, bilious liver, vegetables that smell as sweet by any other name, and so forth, down the pallid lists of the oleaginous concatenation of convalescing vitamins served at room temperature and garnished with the cadavers of the insect world. My gorge rises at the thought! I challenge any of the seven cross-sections to greater right to complaint. For the honor of the Elephants, it must be asserted that they have not been pampered with the edible.
One wonders, Mr. Westcott, just why? Considering the very healthy prices paid, the compulsory consumption of at least ten meals a week, the excellent mechanical facilities, one wonders just why good money plus the food that can be bought by it doesn't add up to good meals. Perhaps a financial investigation is in order? After all, under the given conditions, no great ingenuity is required to serve even passably decent food. There would appear to be only two reasons behind the present indigestive contrepas; incompetence or a form of financial looseness whose obscurity does not permit of definition. In either case, a Pecora should probe the pots and pans to gratify the not too academic curiosity of the mulcted. Who nets the rakeoff? Who fills the little tin boxes? Who gets a commission on what?
Mistress Eaton, the first Westcott of Harvard back in the seventeenth century, was finally cornered in her devious ways by a constipated student body; in the ensuing investigation, she admitted almost every accusation that was leveled against her decayed menu, but she denied, denied most energetically, that she had ever served ungutted fish or, pleasant thought, sheep's dung. So records Professor Morison in his Harvard History. What, Mr. Westcott, what are your denials? Frank E. Sweetser, Jr. '36.