Its ovular form reminds the viewer of an ancient Greek Hippodrome. Like the chariots of old, the liquids contained within race around the base of its form at speeds so quick, that the dark streaks that remain are the only evidence of their existence. These dark streaks shine oh so brightly relative to the gray floor they despoil. A floor colored gray, not Liam Neeson’s shade
but one akin to the grains found on a cigarette butt — an apt comparison considering that the vessel’s depth is no deeper than that of an ash tray. The strength of its form too relates to an ash tray, as its life expectancy is apropos to the people whose proclivities might warrant one. More teflon than kevlar, the container finds much in common with Terry Benedict’s vault, promising to protect its contents for a lifetime, yet crumbling in the face of adversity.
Though perhaps the the bowl fails to draw the right lesson from the Ocean’s Eleven franchise and instead of growing more bloated with each new iteration, has instead shrunk in its most recent form. Alas the most pessimistic of critics might charge the bowl carries with it the hallmarks of the institution from which it comes: swaddling beneficial cost cutting in the grandeurs of eco-friendliness. Yet can one blame the Blue Room, it’s customers are like Legion and no matter what shape their containers contort to, everyone will still buy the eatery’s salads.