Yet even this bastion of old Harvard virtue has not been immune to the economic instability. In fact, the once-exclusive Club recently opened its dining rooms to students—who in previous years had limited their visits to lunches with professors and glad-handing sessions with financial-firm representatives over miniature chicken Wellingtons. While the Club does not expect this new development to compensate the debasement of prestige with a “huge effect on Club finances,” as one administrator speculated in the Crimson, nevertheless they hope this increased accessibility will boost membership rolls in the future.

The totalitarian force of the market in our modern age forces most men and institutions to reckon with its ebbs and flows. Only families and corporations with sufficient financial reserves can remain indifferent to the sudden shifts in the economy—and in these meager times, even Harvard, with the largest university endowment in the world, cannot act aloof entirely. Even the Faculty Club, so proud of its heritage and so disdainful of base concerns like money that it forbids the transfer of cash on the premises, has been forced to stoop. If the Faculty Club’s recent accommodation is any indication, this deepening economic crisis threatens to upend every sacred tradition, every residue of well-deserved privilege, and every last shred of majesty and mystery—and everything, no matter how beautiful, noble, or true, that cannot justify itself to the imperious rule of economic efficiency.

My heart filled with mournful regret for this devolution, I nevertheless resolved to make the most of it and promptly reserved a table at the Faculty Club for luncheon. 

One week into this new regime of student liberty, the Club looked essentially the same as I had remembered it. The floors were still impeccably polished, unspoiled, at least for a time, by the careless gait of muddied undergraduate tennis shoes. The stately wood paneling had not yet been torn off in favor of something more sleek and modish, nor had the portraiture of three centuries of Harvard figures been replaced—to suit the sensibilities of its newest patrons—with posters of Barack H. Obama or whichever of the youngsters’ latest musical fixation. And, most surprising of all, the traditional luncheon menu still remained. The hearty and tasty bill of fare, thank heavens, had not conceded to the vulgar collegiate taste for burritos, sushi, curries or the host of other inedibles proffered by the Square’s vendors. 

Upon arriving at the Club and checking with the host, we waited for nary a moment until being led to our table in the conservatory. At previous luncheons, I had sat in the main dining room, with its traditional wainscoting and elegantly-framed paintings; but on this glorious spring afternoon, I could imagine no better place to enjoy a mid-day repast than at a sun-bathed table in the Club’s cheery conservatory. Our waitress, unfailingly courteous, attentive, and discrete, recommended the buffet—we were in no position to doubt the quiet confidence of her counsel, and gladly assented.

We began with a cup of the Club’s clam chowder. With a surprisingly light broth, large and tender pieces of clam, and perfectly spiced, the chowder sounded a fitting cadence for the languorous progress of the meal. Our appetites whet, we made our first approach to the buffet.

Decorously spread in the main dining room, the luncheon buffet eschewed the conspicuously lavish arrangement that, thanks to the legion of Chinese and Las Vegas-style buffets, lamentably has characterized the genre. A selection of vegetable and pasta salads as well as a diversity of cold offerings stretched out along on one end, while the day’s featured entrées followed next in heated serving platters; and an appealing array of desserts tempted at the end. 

All in all, the luncheon buffet provided pickier tastes with some meaningful choice for main dishes—on that day, we could choose from several styles of seafood, chicken, turkey, and beef. And yet, while maintaining this welcomed variety, the buffet never overreaches, as so many do, in providing too many options and concomitantly sacrificing quality. Indeed, unlike Harvard’s own Core curriculum, the Faculty Club does not just serve various styles of mush from which lunchers can choose, but healthy and tasty meals that the more discriminating of diners will learn to love.

After sampling the bluefish, salmon, shrimp, and chicken Lyonnaise, we proceeded perhaps to the highlight of the meal—the dessert. The Faculty Club is justly famous in the minds of undergraduates, professors, and alumni for its elegant dining, its well-appointed suites and meeting spaces, and the aura of traditional hospitality and civility that it so effortlessly exudes. But perhaps more meritorious even than those worthy accomplishments is the crowning achievement of any visit to the Club—the banana bread pudding. Holding court at the end of the buffet, alongside plump sweet strawberries, fresh whipped cream, and several delicious cheeses, the banana bread pudding is the undisputed champion of the spread. No one possibly could blame you, not even by the Club’s exalted expectations of decorum, for beginning your lunch with dessert.

Indeed, I counted it a privilege to enjoy such a delicious meal on my own volition, a privilege which I fear that future student diners will not so reverently esteem. The entire Faculty Club experience—its charm, its tradition, its panache—is inextricably intertwined with the seemingly irrational rules regulating everything from the clientele to gratuities. The Club is a world unto itself, intricately ordered and flawlessly organized, free from quotidian concerns and other bothersome necessities. Indeed, many of these rules could not have come about as the result of catering to market pressure and to the need of attracting a crowd. Instead, the Club, as any observant diner well can tell, has been fortunate to have as its standards only what is truly dignified and beautiful.

Yet, as even this alcove of Harvard is thrown open to students, we may wonder how much longer institutions such as the Faculty Club can endure. We modern men take it for granted that our whims and our desires ought, if they can, to be satisfied by whatever our money can buy; and never pause to consider whether there might be some other standards, set by ones wiser and more considerate than we, with which we might conform our own attitudes and prejudices. The aggregate of vulgar populist preferences gave unto the world the monstrosity aptly named the “Big Mac”; well-cultivated and aristocratic taste, unencumbered by economic feasibility, delivered unto us the Faculty Club’s banana bread pudding. We would do well, now that we have gained access thither, not to squander that precious inheritance.