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In a move combining the semantic flourish of the United States military and the solemn secrecy of an ancient mystery cult, the Ratty is instituting a policy aimed at keeping the already dubious origins of its many dining options firmly in the food closet.
"Don't get me wrong," said BUDS director David Samuelson. "It is entirely plausible that the Polynesian chicken wings were ferried here by Oceanic warriors in giant canoes. But everybody's looking to sue these days, and we just can't take that risk."
Brown students must bid farewell to menu features like Spanish potatoes, Key West chicken, and even the hopelessly vague Asian noodle bar-items whose geographic specificity rendered them vulnerable to litigation from diners with a modicum of culinary knowledge and confused internationals alike.
While many mourn the expunction of nominally international titles and the elimination of any semblance of nutritional information, the recent shift to menu ambiguity offers a new outlet for student creativity, according to Professor of Literary Arts Marty Rosenthal. Rosenthal is teaching a course this semester called "Food Writing: Imagining the Undisclosed," which he designed shortly after learning of the Ratty's new initiative.
"I tell my students to walk around the Ratty. I want them to feel the pulsing energy of the omelet bar and faux-wood interior and to savor the myriad and muddled smells of institutional cooking at its most unspecific," he said, adding that the exertion is often so draining that his students require frequent snack breaks.
For a final project, Rosenthal's students must craft a novella about a Ratty food item of their choice.
"I wrote a bildungsroman about a cherry tomato that just really spoke to me," said Chuck Zinder '11, who is enrolled in the class. "The black spots that speckled its red-gray exterior worked great with the light-dark motif that I was going for."
The recent change also encourages members of the Brown community to think of Ratty fare for its practical purposes.
Brian Meyering '11 earned the praise of his professor for designing a suspension bridge bound entirely by a mysterious adhesive that once occupied a biodegradable container last seen when he absconded from the Ratty with it one evening.
"The macaroni and cheese, or whatever they're calling it now, is like industrial strength glue when it dries," said Meyering, who secretly used the creamy dish in his project. "Plus, the milky-peach color really helps in the looks department."
Suggestions by the Archaeology Department that Ratty produce be subjected to carbon dating have also been met with tentative approval.
Despite inquiries regarding the trucks, presumably carrying foodstuffs, which appear daily in the Ratty parking lot, the dining staff remains tight-lipped. Their silence on the matter has led some to believe that a confidentiality clause was inserted into the contract produced by recent labor negotiations.
One student, who asked not to be named, offered another possible explanation.
"BUDS hired those Via Via guys as consultants in 'underground organizational management,'" said the tipster, whose close relationship with a certain card-swiper has provided her with late afternoon gossip and a lenient re-entry arrangement.
When asked about these allegations, Ratty manager Esmeralda Jenkins channeled her pizza-purveying counterparts.
"We know you might be curious about where your food comes from," she said with an evil cackle, "but we won't tell you!"
