On my ships, from Defiant class Escort to Excelsior class cruiser, we have a little thing called replicators. No galley's, no cooks. None needed. These replicators work on the same basic tech as transporters. They're REALLY neat. They can replicate just about anything right down to the molecular level. They can replicate the finest cooking you can imagine or crude, raw matter or anything in between. They can even replicate little touches like the burnt, crusty bits that would get scraped up off the bottom of the pan. You can program them to vary the product results over a number of given parameters to simulate the way food would never come off the stove EXACTLY the same way twice. You can randomize it so you would never know, yourself, exactly how it will taste. So no cooks, no galleys and no enlisted personnel since everything that MIGHT be done by them is now automated. The toilets are all self-cleaning and there's no paper to be replaced. Where the paper used to go (in ancient times) we have these 3 little sea shells (but I'm NOT telling you how they work... need to know basis only!). There's no laundry and little closet or storage space since all clothing is replicated as needed. Once done with it you simply dispose of it. All waste materials are recycled. There are no children on board. This is a starship, not a nursery. Since average lifespans are nearing 200 and contraception is 100% fail proof and 100% reversible it would make no sense. With an occasional load of raw materials to replace what little is actually lost the ship can be totally self-sufficient for years... except for Twinkies. Noone's ever figgered out what the hell is actually in them even after several centuries and the Chief Engineer gets cranky if she goes short of them...
ZOE: "Sir! You paid money for this?... on purpose??"
KIRK: "Excuse me... what does God need with a starship?"
Assuming that I'm on my Intrepid-class sci vessel with the usual crew complement of 150 and standard mess area configurations, as well as the fact that I'm in my little alt-verse...
Replicators for the most part meet the needs of the crew. My Ops Officer periodically adds new recipes whenever we're docked at a friendly Starbase.
One of my junior Bajoran Sci officers, whom we consider to be our very own Reg Barclay, has converted Cargo Bay 2 into a hydroponics garden - this week it's carrots and Andorian tuber root.
The Captain's Mess serves only non-replicated food, prepared by our venerable Bolian chef. Vegetables are naturally supplemented from the aforementioned hydroponics garden, whilst meat on the other hand...
My Cardassian Sci Officer insists on drinking hot fish juice for breakfast each morning, which results in crew from up to two tables away vacating the vicinity almost immediately. Being Asian myself and as a show of solidarity, I sometimes order a cup for myself as well, but add lots of Soy Sauce before consumption.
My First Officer is to blame for starting Pieday Friday.
My Ops Officer wants me to officially redesignate Five o'clock as Beer o'clock.
A Romulan Security Lieutenant keeps in Cargo Bay 1 a secret stash of Romulan Ale his Senator father regularly sends all the way from Romulus*. It's sort of an open secret - when it arrives via courier the first Wednesday morning of every month, an impressive queue forms. A similar queue forms later in the afternoons, outside sickbay.
A lockout code has been programmed into all shipboard replicators, preventing our Caitian Security Ensign from replicating more than one cheeseburger every 24 hours.
A similar lockout prevents my Trill CMO from replicating too many desserts. To think that she's responsible for the health of the entire crew...
Besides my Bolian chef and El-Aurian bartender, there are no other civilians aboard this ship, no children, and certainly no talented kid wonder cadet. This allows us to get away with having alcoholic ice cream in the replicator menus.
My Tac Officer claims that alcohol is vulgar, yet I caught her in MY quarters drinking Vodka Mudshake.
My Andorian Chief Engineer is very fond of iced Raktajino. I knew something was up between him and my female Andorian Security Chief when the latter recently started ordering Klingon coffee from the replicators, despite the fact that the latter had declared that it "tasted like an oil slick".
*I did say I was in my own little alt-reality, no?