Fillookie. Rumors of the magical Fillookie have run amok ever since this strange and mysterious object first appeared without explanation in the baked goods case in the Gizmo. Some say any who eat it will earn 4.0’s; others merely shake their heads despairingly while muttering something about the “freshman 15.” One student was overheard whispering with a caf worker in regards to secret ingredients imported from Timbuktu; another claims to remember tasting this supposed delicacy at last year’s Food Fair.
However, when the Fillookie first appeared I cared nothing for such talk. I cared only for that sight of what was surely golden deliciousness. Nothing lay between it and me except a thin door of glass and $2.25 in dining dollars.
Wait. $2.25 in dining dollars? The thought made me stop short. Although but three weeks into the term, I’d already tried banning myself from ordering anything but toast in a vain effort to retain my fake Monopoly money, which was draining from my ID at an alarming rate.
No, I realized. Not even for this beautiful, stunning, filled-with-chocolately-goodness-and-possibly-from-another-world Fillookie, could I sacrifice $2.25 in dining dollars.
For those of you who have been living in the basements of the Quads and do not know what a Fillookie is, let me explain. It is essentially a cookie of about four times normal thickness (either chocolate chip or pure dark chocolate), filled with either melted chocolate or a creamy, sugary paste. (Yes, paste. For you literature majors, you may correctly identify that word as “foreshadowing” and begin to suspect this love affair does not conclude happily). Sitting in the Gizmo bakery case under heat lamps, it is usually at least moderately warm upon purchase, ensuring the chocolate does not solidify.
At the time, however, I was ignorant of any of this. I was aware only of the tempting possibility of that sweet Fillookie, just waiting to be consumed. Every day I would stand at the cash register and meekly order my toast while trying to avert my eyes from this temptation.
But, alas, even the strongest will eventually break and I am only on step one of the Dining Dollars Anonymous plan. One Friday, after a long, hard week, I opened my mouth to order toast and instead out popped the sentence that damned me: “I’d like a Fillookie, please.”
If only I had known then what I do now! As I reverently carried my precious Fillookie to a table, I was unaware that I was fast approaching my doom.
The first bite was sheer heaven. It was like a normal Gizmo cookie, but softer, chewier and with more chocolate chips.
The second bite was also pretty good. The third was all right, but by that point, I was starting to wonder if I’d ever reach the chocolatey gooey goodness in the center. I was starting to get a bit…full.
I think I reached it by the eighth bite. By then I nearly wanted to cry from the sugary overkill and the heavy denseness of that awful Fillookie. But here, at last, was the chocolate filling! This, at last, would be redemption.
It was— if you define redemption as realizing you’ve just eaten the most fake-tasting bread product of your life that has overwhelming richness but no flavor, leading you to repent and vow never to purchase it again.
However, I did not learn my lesson. My awful experience with the Fillookie, which left me with at gross full feeling for the rest of the day, had been with the chocolate chip variety. There was also a cookies and cream flavor.
So, fool that I was, I went back and tried that one as well.
If the first time had been a mistake, the second was a bigger one. The filling, which was now a cream filling, may be the most synthetic thing I have ever tasted and coated my mouth with a flavor it was impossible to wash out. Afterward, I honestly believed that I would never want to consume another bite of food ever again— and I didn’t even finish the whole thing.
Let this be your warning, fellow Knoxians. Learn from my errors. Fillookies look perfect but will bring only suffering. And a loss of $2.25 in dining dollars. To put that in perspective: a breakfast bagel, also called perfection, is only $1.85; thus, in buying a Fillookie, you have paid for more than perfection and received nothing but misery.
Flavors: Chocolate chip, cookies and cream
Cons: Too rich, synthetic, kind of disgusting, results in nausea.
Overall rating: One out of five Helmut Heads