Creative Essay: The Law School Cafe

“Next!”

Shuffle. Step step. Shuffle.

“Next in line!”

Step. Shuffle step.

“Next in line!”

Step.

“Next!”

Shuffle step.

Teresa’s working the cash register on the left; Claudia’s in a mask on the right. The te-te-te of Winette’s tongs banging on a compostable, brown box catch my attention as the last bits of avocado reluctantly fall. She sets three boxes in between Teresa and Claudia before stepping back to her station.

Shuffle. Step step.

“Next in line!”

A student in an oversized tee looks up from his phone, jumps to Claudia’s register, shows his USC ID, pays, and is gone in less than 45 seconds. The line pushes forward. “Next!” The girl at the register asks if the chicken teriyaki is any good. Teresa shakes her head no. The saliva in my mouth builds. I’m at the front. Both registers are occupied. “Next!” Step step step.

“Hi, Teresa.” She smiles at me the way the security guard who works nights at Doheny does. I say I’m doing well and ask about her son. A new patron steps up to Claudia’s register. The dispenser of orange thai tea bubbles frantically. Teresa’s drawn-in eyebrows are raised.

“Next in line!” Claudia yells again. And before I realize what I’m saying, I’m saying it. The sentence I’ve said countless times comes out with the same excitement, nervousness, and awe as the first time I said it freshman year. “One salmon bowl please.”

The salmon bowl at the Law Cafe. Warm white rice, a cold filet of salmon, sliced avocado, spicy mayo, teriyaki sauce, and a sprinkle of furikake seasoning.

I found out about the salmon bowl when I was a freshman. This was before Emily Mariko and her trendy salmon bowls caught “food TikTok” by storm. Before the opportunistic business minds behind the Fertita Cafe started offering their own “Law Cafe Salmon Bowls.” I knew about the bowls before undergrads even knew there was a Law Cafe, before the mobile order pickup station, and before they started using compostable boxes instead of plastic bowls. And now, as I move through my final year at USC, the time has come; I want to share this place—this place that I love—with you. But before you can truly enjoy it, there are some things you gotta know...

First, don’t get your hopes up. You must understand (and accept) that there’s always a chance the box you’re handed isn’t going to be good. The salmon may be a little fishy. Perhaps they skimp you on avocado. There might be an overall watery texture running through the bowl and you can’t tell if it's the sauces or the rice. Don’t be turned away by this. In fact, be excited by it.

Heroin addicts are said to be addicted to one thing in particular—the feeling of that first high. Supposedly, it’s akin to pure bliss and euphoria. Law Cafe salmon bowl addicts are no different. We keep coming back—weathering watery bowls and fishy fish—out of the hope that the next time we come, the box we are handed will be just right: a perfect piece of seared salmon. A fresh portion of avocado splayed out across warm rice. Orange spicy mayo and dark brown teriyaki sauce beautifully crisscrossing the other. And a generous sprinkle of furikake dusting the surface of it all. This heavenly bowl may forever live in the minds of Law Cafe enthusiasts, but it’s a nice dream... It’s a nice dream and it keeps us coming back.

The salmon bowl isn’t an art but a craft. It’s the product of hours upon hours, days upon days, months upon months, and years upon years of repetition. Which leads me to my next piece of advice... Respect the women behind the counter.

Storytime.

It was 1:40 on a Tuesday. I decided to write this piece about the bowls earlier that day and wanted to do some research. The cafe was uncharacteristically empty when I arrived—except for a few regulars. Maddie Reynolds sat at her own table picking the “SC Outfitters” sticker off her hydro flask. Next to her, an Asian guy with droopy hair dodged his girlfriend’s outstretched hands, finding open spots on her face to kiss. In the corner, a law student ate lunch out of a Tupperware container he brought from home. I walked through the phantom line, past the two cash registers, and over to the workstation—a panel of opaque plexiglass blocking my view of the ingredients.

“November 16th, 2004.” A middle-aged black woman with purple eye shadow looked up from what she was doing. She waited for me to take my hands off the glass before going back to halving and pitting avocados with a green-stained knife. “That’s when I started. The salmon bowls haven’t changed since.” She told me her name was Winette.

“You’re a student? What do you study?” I responded and turned to smile at the masked cashier who was cautiously watching us. She mumbled something in Spanish to Winette. Winette responded in English and swung her head back to me, her head titled down, her eye shadow now hidden. “My son wants to do something with film. I think Teresa’s son does too. Or maybe he’s doing French. Claudia, does he study French or film here?” Claudia—the cashier in the mask—confirmed with a nod that Teresa’s son studies French.

“Look honey, I can’t tell you what’s in the recipe and I can’t talk to you when I’m working. I get off at three and I don’t want to talk to you then either because that’s my time. But here’s what I’ll do.” She walked into the kitchen and appeared a couple of minutes later with an orange post-it note. “Call her. The school doesn’t like us speaking to people—especially while we are working. She’s the one in charge. Talk to her.”

That was my first time conversing with them. I learned a valuable lesson that day: show them respect and don’t ask too many questions.

Let’s check in. You know the bowl and you know the people behind the bowl. Onto the third piece of advice...

Don’t trust the menu.

The Law Cafe offers one thing, done one way. It also says they make Chicken Teriyaki. They don’t. The menu is just a front.

Storytime (continued.)

As I was politely told to mind my business by Winette that Tuesday, Rob walked into the cafe and ordered a salmon bowl. I squeezed the post-it note into my palm and chased after him as he walked out. Rob has big cheeks and likes to wear baseball hats. That day, he wore a blue and orange Mets hat with a matching Mets jersey.

“Oh, hey Jared.” We are in the same major (Business of Cinematic Arts.) He’s going to work at HBOMax in the accounting department next year. I began to ask him questions.

“It’s fine. The lines keep getting longer. The tables are usually full so I was just going to bring it back here.” We stood in front of the accounting school.

I asked two more questions.

“Yeah, I have had the bowl at Fertita. It’s not as good. The rice is underseasoned and overcooked.” Last question. “If I could change one thing? I wish they would actually offer brown rice. It’s healthier.” I said thank you and walked back to the Law School, only turning to respond to the question he quietly shouted. “Are you going to class tonight?”

I sat on the steps out front and dialed the number on the orange note. Claudi Morataya—Executive Assistant of USC Auxilary Service—picked up the phone and we talked for two minutes before she put me on hold. I called her back. She told me to fill out a request to contact form and to be sure to include that it is time sensitive. I never got a response back.

It was around 2 pm at that point. I went back to the cafe—something that Rob said scratching the back of my mind. A medium-sized line of 15 people had formed. The tables were all occupied. I walked back up to the counter, putting the crumbled post-it note in my pocket. Apparently, all of the ladies behind the counter knew who I was at this point; they giggled to each other and sneaked glances at me. Winette continued working, drizzling spicy mayo into a box with one hand and teriyaki sauce with the other.

Remembering why I came, I looked up at the menu. It says they “offer” brown rice. I made a mental note to sit next to Rob in class that night.

Number four...You still with me?

Pass it on.

Chase showed it to me. His older sister Sophie—a USC song girl who did homework in the Law School—showed Chase. Eli was the first person I brought. Then Jake. Most recently, I took Angela there. The other day, I ran into Eli outside of the law school. He was with this girl Anya who he has a couple of classes with. Jake’s sister Mia—a Trojan Transfer—told me she took her new friend there the other day.

If you choose to join this community, there’s only one requirement: pass it on. Keep the tradition going. Share the cafe and the bowl with those you care about.

As we reach the end, let me say a couple of things. First, thank you for getting this far. I hope my love for this place, if anything, convinces you to embark on this pilgrimage. Throughout my time at USC, the Law Cafe and the salmon bowls have been a source of stability, nourishment, and silent sanctuary. I have cherished it and will miss it dearly.

But now, the time has come—my last piece of advice.

Hop in line.

You’re ready. Just do it.

Once you’re in line, take it in. Feel the rhythm of it. You’re a part of it. Step. Step again. Shuffle. Now listen. “Next!” That’s Teresa. “Next in line!” That’s Claudia. If you ever hear “Next! Next in line!” that’s Winette; she’s probably picking up for someone who is on break. And when it’s your turn to order. Don’t look at the menu. You know what you’re going to get. Now, you only have a few seconds before your bowl comes. In this brief moment, watch with an unobstructed view what no business expert from Fertita Cafe can teach. The chemistry and unspoken connection of these women working—knowing where the other person is, what the other person needs—without needing to look or say anything. The ballet of it all. Take it in. And when they hand you the box, feel the weight of it. The warmth of the rice coming through to your hands. Be delicate. Be gentle. Grab an extra napkin.

There’s probably no seating in the cafe, so here’s what you’re going to do. Go up the stairs that are to your left when you exit the cafe. Now go out that door. You’re on the side of the Law School. Walk toward the front. There’s a tree and a patch of grass over to your left. Go over there. Your pants may get a little dirty but it’s okay. Take a seat. Be careful, though. There’s this gust of wind that likes to pass through this area so put the extra napkin under something.

Now, here we go—pay attention. Unlock the box. Slowly. Slower. Slower. This is it—you’re about to see the hand you’ve been dealt. Exhale—today’s a good day. Now, rip the lid of the box; it only gets in the way. There’s furikake, spicy mayo, and teriyaki sauce stuck to the bottom of it. That’s your little present. It’s okay. Lick it. Don’t let it go to waste. Now, look at the bowl. Look at it. Sit with it. Admire it. A lot of work went into it.

Now, the next part is up to you. I won’t get in your business of how you want to go about eating it. But make sure to take your time and enjoy it. Be there with it. And if someone else is on that patch of grass near the tree licking the undercarriage of a lid they just ripped off, be sure to smile. Perhaps even wave. They will probably wave back. It’ll probably be me.