Photo Essay: The Food Court at University Mall. Orem, Utah.

Malls are cavernous temples to consumerism. They reek of palpitating wallets and lubricious purses. Ever since developing a social conscious, I have avoided them. But today I walked into the University Mall Food Court to sample their soulless cooking. So if you think this is going to be a balanced piece of writing, you are in for a keen disappointment.

I got there right at eleven in the morning; the staff was still rinsing bilge off the tabletops. Somehow I had thought there were dozens of food shops there -- but there were only eight active ones. The Cinnabon was dark and empty.

Why do people eat in such a mausoleum? Can they possibly enjoy the experience? I began regretting my decision even before ordering anything. The place haunted me like an abandoned train station, with wraiths drifting about waiting to take a trip that would never happen. How can one eat in such a graveyard?

But then I ordered a slice of plain cheese pizza at Villa Italian Kitchen. The crust was crisp and the taste was honest. I thoroughly enjoyed each bite. It was in my face and on my tastebuds. I liked it, and suddenly felt a giddy sense of remorse for initially feeling so badly about the place. I was being an ignorant snob about the whole thing.

Next up I ordered loaded french fries from a Philly Steak place. They came with cheese sauce and bacon. The bacon, sadly, turned out to be crumbled to dust. But the cheese sauce was rich and thick, drowning the fries in a glorious lactose bog. Not too shabby.

But then the sesame chicken got me at the Flaming Wok. I should say that the sauce on the breaded chicken hunks got me. It was gluey and cloying, and even the noodles I ordered with it did not cut the saccharine and sodium - charged enormity of my blunder. I ate mechanically, doggedly, since I had paid over six dollars for it. I felt shamefully full, but not fed.

Abruptly disoriented, I looked around at the filling tables, only to see inhuman blurs leering at me. It was as if I had committed a crime in a Kafka story.

I wanted to flee down the nearest hallway, under the glare of neon lights that turned my skin a sickly white.

The sight of this young woman restored me to sanity -- at least to enough calmness to bus my tray, put on my jacket, and walk out into the cold, refreshing air to catch the 850 back to my apartment -- where I took 500 mm of Naproxen, soaked my feet in cold water, and drank nearly a liter of Shasta club soda before lying back in my recliner for a nap.