I've never been to The Chop House. When I’m rushing to or from class with an empty stomach, Thai food doesn’t even cross my mind. Like many of my peers, I reach for a sure thing when I’m hungry. In fact, my Ann Arbor eating is almost exclusively limited to a handful of sushi places (depending on which one I’m closest to) and the occasional salad from Panera. I rarely branch out from this handful of restaurants, and when I do, it’s usually with a friend who is, for whatever reason, sick of sushi and Panera salads.

But I can’t help but think I’m missing out on something — that an entire world of cafés, sandwich shops, and restaurants exists outside my tuna roll and chicken salad palate. After all, aside from a few office buildings and parking structures, what is our downtown district but a mecca of upscale (and overpriced) eateries? Am I the only person in Ann Arbor who doesn’t take advantage of these dining opportunities?

I decided to seek out these answers the only way I knew how: by putting my appetite in strangers’ hands. For an entire day, I asked people off the streets where to go for each meal and what to order — no Panera allowed.

10:30 a.m.

My Saturday morning started on South University Avenue. Though I was sporting bleary black eye makeup from the night before, I didn’t shy away from asking for breakfast suggestions from the trendiest person I could find: a Burberry-clad woman in sunglasses who was the perfect complement to her breakfast suggestion — Sava’s for the Parfait French Toast.

Though I’d never stepped foot inside Sava’s, I should have known that the woman’s appearance was a precursor to the classy establishment awaiting me. The leather gloves. The oversized shades. The lipstick at such an early hour. This woman obviously leads a classier life than I do, and this unfortunate truth unveiled itself the second I stepped inside the clean, crisp and well-lit restaurant. Everything was just too polished.

The French toast I ordered was just as intimidating as the ritzy atmosphere, piled high with creamy yogurt, artfully arranged berries and pompousness. Nothing about the flavor itself wowed me. Despite the glamorous appearance and price tag, it tasted exactly like a piece of bread smothered in dairy and fruit.

So maybe the dish wouldn’t be showing up in my dreams anytime soon — a phenomenon my waiter had claimed to experience regularly. But at least it looked pretty.

2:30 p.m.

My next meal felt a little closer to home, thanks to advice from a group of students I met taking a smoke break on a Kerrytown porch.

“You have to go to Jerusalem Garden, get the falafel sandwich,” instructed the leader of the porch posse, shielding her bleach-blonde hair from the wind. “And you have to get it with hummus and hot sauce.”

“It’s just an Ann Arbor original,” added her hairy friend in a voice as serious as his grizzly beard. “It’s not like one of those cookie-cutter pita chips and hummus places. You can get that shit anywhere in this town.”

The small, sunny restaurant was a nice change from the spread of Sava’s, but I still felt a little bummed at my porch friends’ suggestion.

It's not like anything was wrong with the food — the hummus was creamy and the falafel deep-fried to perfection — but my time there just didn’t feel out of the ordinary.

There was no mystery, no stressful-yet-exciting hunts through the menu, or the “let’s all order different things so we can share” deals among groups of friends. Everyone there knew exactly what they wanted and what they were getting. What's the fun in that?

6:45 p.m.

Lunch was a little less inspiring than I had expected, but I had faith that my luck would change when dinner rolled around. Maybe someone would instruct me to go somewhere fancy, where patrons wore real pants in lieu of leggings and entrées cost more than six dollars. And maybe, just maybe, that place would serve medium-rare steaks.

But it seemed that fate and I just weren’t on the same page. My dinner assignment was Panchero’s Mexican Grill, the home of midnight munchies, belligerent conversations and everything that comes with an embarrassing night of South U partying. A low price and DIY thrill, according to Sam, the curly-headed guy I met outside Espresso Royale on State Street.

“The townie secret is to order a side of beans, rice and a tortilla,” he insisted, “and then just make it into a burrito yourself. It’s cheaper than just ordering something off their menu.”

Needless to say, I was skeptical. What could the fast food Tex Mex place offer me that a local restaurant couldn’t, especially when my BAC was “in the blue?”

Admittedly, my Panchero’s experience was almost exciting at first. I felt like I was cheating the system as I stood behind the burrito bar. At any moment a cook could point his leathery finger and expose me for the penny-pincher I was.