Here’s a plant that separated us from the booth next to us:
This plant is going to hear an awful lot of dumb conversation in its life.
Because nobody’s coming here to have some kind of deep moment of clarity: everything is against it. You eat too much heavy food to have heavy talk, and nobody just comes here to order coffee or tea.
It’s not that you can’t have a good conversation here, it’s just that there’s always somebody on the other side of the grass. Okay, well, in the picture there’s nobody present, but about five minutes later a couple were seated over there. And I heard them talk about things. I don’t know, it was actually Wednesday, so I don’t remember. Oh, yeah, they were talking about the challenge of buying a house in this place. Which is something I also understand. But they seemed like they were closer to it than we are, and that just made me feel annoyed, because these two jokers who CHOSE to eat at Olive Garden, rather than we who are COMPELLED to eat here by this ball and chain we call a Pasta Pass, are somehow making better financial decisions than we are.
So don’t go to Olive Garden to have important conversations, because I’m just going to be sitting there, annoyed, wondering what your life has to do with mine, and why yo’re eating in my dining room.
I’m not territorial about the place, just more about the purpose of the place. This isn’t where you share life’s milestones: this is where you go when your car breaks down on the Delta Highway and you squint through white smoke until you’ve limped the thing over the bridge and pulled into the Olive Garden lot and then called the AAA tow truck and found out exactly how long it’s going to take for him to show up, and figure you might as well just eat here, since it looks like there’s no way you’re driving to Red Robin anytime soon, and so you order what looks like the cheapest filling thing on the menu, which is spaghetti and meatballs, and you don’t want it, but you force down have of it anyway, because who knows when you’re going to be able to afford to eat out again after paying for whatever new engine this stupid Corsica needs, and then you ask for a Styrofoam box for your leftover pasta because the tow guy is finally here and then dash out to the parking lot to help him put that red mess on four wheels up on back of the truck, and then cram yourself in the tiny cab with the guy and make pleasant, Olive-Garden-level conversation while sweating under that styrofoam box that somehow didn’t cost you $15 but $1500 or whatever it takes to get the car back together.
So if you’re thinking about visiting The Olive Garden, just remember the grass is greenest at home, so stay home.
Item 1: linguine, mushroom alfredo, shrimp