I am in line with my tray at Valois, the premier cafeteria of Chicago's South Side, waiting for the big guy in front of me to complete his order. His tray is already crowded with two gigantic pork chops, mashed potatoes and gravy, and a frilly dessert, and now he wants something else. "Gimme a corn on the cob," he mutters to Larry, one of the Greeks who lords over the counter with a faux sullenness.

Larry, whose shirt is unbuttoned down to his hairy sternum, ignores him. But the guy knows he's been heard, and he's not budging. "No. You have enough," Larry finally sneers, as he mops a gravy spill and scoops up a bowl of split pea soup. I take a step back, and sneak a glance at the guy's face. I wonder whether there's going to be a fight. But the guy just looks humbled and begins nudging his tray down the stainless steel counter toward the cashier. A minute later I spy Larry coolly tong up a cob and plop it onto the guy's plate. Nobody says a word.

So it goes at Valois, whose non-ironic motto is "see your food." It takes both kinds of guts to run the gauntlet of the cafeteria line, which serves "meats," "soups," "vegetables" and "desserts." The regulars (and pretty girls) can count on getting the biggest, leanest chops and fielding lots of insult and innuendo, respectively. Strangers -- like geeky new kids -- get the silent treatment. And the problem is you never know for sure where you stand. A friend of mine who was horribly traumatized by junior high school cafeteria experiences swears the atmosphere at Valois is worse. Another friend swears the food is worth it. All this to say that when you begin eating here, go with a shrink who is a regular.