Sal's site

Inside a student-run campus sanctuary on a sweltering afternoon, two university colleagues trade memories of vanished local eateries over hot paninis, fresh-cut chips, and a lesson in culinary craft.

Outside, a relentless, humid heat blanket covers the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign campus. Central Illinois in June operates entirely on summer rules: suffocating air, sun-bleached asphalt, and the dull hum of commercial chillers fighting the humidity.

Stepping through the heavy doors of Bevier Hall offers immediate salvation. Tucked into the building’s second floor, Bevier Café is blessedly, deeply air-conditioned.

My friend and colleague Zach Kennedy, who works three floors up with Illinois Extension, navigates the cafeteria line with practiced familiarity. He opts for the fish and chips alongside dessert. I load my tray with a caprese panini, house-made potato chips, a red velvet parfait, and a chocolate chip cookie.

Around twenty diners—faculty, staff, and students—dot the dining room, talking in hushed tones over lunch while soft instrumental music drifts from overhead speakers.

Behind the register, a sandy-blonde student wearing glasses, an apron, and a floral short-sleeved shirt rings up our trays. A food science major earning hands-on credit, she chats easily about her shift before delivering the final tally: $13.08 for my entire spread. In an era where a limp fast-food combo can nudge fifteen dollars, the total feels almost nostalgic. Zach’s fish and chips comes in even lower.

We claim a table near the entrance, ready to assess the plates.

The Rhythm of the Tray

Zach doesn’t take his proximity to Bevier for granted. He visits at least once a week, often meeting colleagues or bumping into familiar faces across campus departments. While standard paninis and garden salads anchor the permanent menu, the specialty entrées rotate daily to give the student culinary staff real-world line experience.

Zach’s plate arrives first: three golden filets resting over a generous bed of thick-cut steak fries, accompanied by tartar sauce, a cup of slaw, and a grilled lemon wedge. He politely holds off on his first bite until my tray arrives, then squeezes the charred citrus across the fish.

“Not exactly a low-calorie option,” Zach notes with a grin. “Every once in a while, you’ve got to have some fried food.”

He cuts into the filet. The cod arrives piping hot without feeling weighed down by oil, encased in a batter that balances crunch and lightness. His assessment of the sides is just as discerning.

“It’s not a mayonnaise-based coleslaw,” Zach observes approvingly. “It’s more vinegar- and sugar-driven, which I prefer. Especially on a hot day like today, you don’t want heavy mayo bogging you down when you’re already having fried food.”

My caprese panini proves just as thoughtfully executed. The bread is pressed crisp, marked by neat, charred parallel tracks resembling freshly tilled Midwestern corn rows. The tomato is sliced thin, married to an even smear of herbaceous pesto and tangy balsamic reduction that never overpowers the crusty bread. Crucially, the kitchen shows restraint with the mozzarella, keeping the sandwich structured rather than drowning it in grease.

The accompanying house-made potato chips are cut thick and sturdy, delivering a loud crunch without a dusting of salt. Later in the afternoon, resting in my paper to-go container, they give off that distinct, comforting aroma of freshly salted french fries.

Classrooms in the Kitchen

Midway through the meal, the quiet hum of the café shifts. A group of ten children, shepherded by a few camp counselors, files through the doorway with eager, darting eyes.

Carter Phillips, an instructional chef at the café, steps out from behind the counter and gathers the young visitors in a semicircle.

“How many of you like food?” Phillips asks, his voice cutting through the dining room. “How many of you think you want to be chefs when you grow up?”

A few small hands shoot into the air. Phillips smiles, leaning down to meet their eye level.

“There are lots of different options if you’re interested in food,” he explains. He breaks down the café’s educational mission, clarifying that the undergraduates working the prep stations and flat-tops hail from the Department of Food Science and Human Nutrition. Most are training to become registered dietitians or hospitality executives rather than line cooks.

“They are not necessarily training here to be chefs,” Phillips says. “But because their career paths are going to intersect with commercial kitchens, our job is to teach them how to operate safely, efficiently, and collaboratively.”

With that, he invites the camp to grab lunch before taking them behind the swinging stainless-steel doors for an insider tour.

Watching the scene unfold, I feel a pang of guilt. Despite working on the Illinois campus for over fifteen years, this marks only my second visit to Bevier Café.

Echoes of Old Menus

The culinary lesson turns our conversation backward, dredging up memories of local restaurant history.

Zach spent years working in commercial kitchens around Champaign County, putting in shifts at The Spaghetti Shop in Savoy, The Courier Café in Urbana, and the long-lost City of New Orleans in downtown Champaign. I counter with my own family’s history in the trade: my parents owning several Central Park drive-thru locations during the 1990s, slinging made-to-order burgers, seasoned shoestring fries, and chicken sandwiches out of compact, double-sided booths.

We talk about the relentless churn of the restaurant business—the beloved local institutions that shuttered, the experimental pop-ups that flashed and burned out, and the rise of impersonal third-party delivery apps charging premium fees to drop lukewarm food onto front porches.

In an industry defined by volatile turnover and rising overhead, this student-run kitchen on the south side of campus feels like a rare, steady anchor: classic, collaborative, and unbothered by commercial trends.

I cap the lunch with the red velvet parfait, the clear standout of the afternoon. Piled high and layered throughout, the cream cheese frosting is rich and velvety, soaking gently into moist crumbles of cocoa-red cake. It is decadent enough that I consider ordering a second to stash in my office mini-fridge, but better judgment prevails.

Zach finishes his plate, wipes his hands, and looks out across the dining room.

“We’re lucky to have this building,” he says.

“Definitely,” I reply.

Food photos taken by Zach Kennedy.

All other photos taken by Sal Nudo.