When You're Here, You're Family, sort of
The phrase "fuck Olive Garden" in quotes yields 126 results on Google.
I'm adding to that tally.
Since my two sisters and I live in Ventura, Moorpark and Silver Lake respectively, we tend to conduct family gatherings in the (hot, dry, dusty-ass) Valley, at chain restaurants. This means we're at BJ's or Olive Garden or some other comfortably vanilla place rather than any bastion of epicurean enlightenment.
While I am never a fan of the O.G. on my most forgiving day, Sunday's experience was a lesson in gastrointestinal insult. Our waitress exuded a sort of friendly apathy, but could handle only one request at a time. Food arrival was staggered.
The taste... ah, the taste was woefully absent. Bianca pushed a bored fork through white-sludge-in-red-water masquerading as cheese ravioli with marinara. I had some sort of alleged chicken served with wilted broccoli over a sea of pulpy oriechiette pastas shaped like Gilligan's hat. Neither of us cleaned the plate. Even the chocolate gelato I hopefully ordered for dessert was left unfinished.
You have to have a pretty shitty pasta for Polarbeast not to finish it. You have to have even shittier gelato for Polarbeast not to finish it. We spent the remainder of Sunday with stomachs hurting, and today still brings an occasional wince as my body tries to figure out who assaulted it.
Fuck Olive Garden. Let's copyright that.
Remind me to tell you how Olive Garden mangles single malt whisky. And for your browsing pleasure try Googling "olive garden food poisoning".
I'm adding to that tally.
Since my two sisters and I live in Ventura, Moorpark and Silver Lake respectively, we tend to conduct family gatherings in the (hot, dry, dusty-ass) Valley, at chain restaurants. This means we're at BJ's or Olive Garden or some other comfortably vanilla place rather than any bastion of epicurean enlightenment.
While I am never a fan of the O.G. on my most forgiving day, Sunday's experience was a lesson in gastrointestinal insult. Our waitress exuded a sort of friendly apathy, but could handle only one request at a time. Food arrival was staggered.
The taste... ah, the taste was woefully absent. Bianca pushed a bored fork through white-sludge-in-red-water masquerading as cheese ravioli with marinara. I had some sort of alleged chicken served with wilted broccoli over a sea of pulpy oriechiette pastas shaped like Gilligan's hat. Neither of us cleaned the plate. Even the chocolate gelato I hopefully ordered for dessert was left unfinished.
You have to have a pretty shitty pasta for Polarbeast not to finish it. You have to have even shittier gelato for Polarbeast not to finish it. We spent the remainder of Sunday with stomachs hurting, and today still brings an occasional wince as my body tries to figure out who assaulted it.
Fuck Olive Garden. Let's copyright that.
Remind me to tell you how Olive Garden mangles single malt whisky. And for your browsing pleasure try Googling "olive garden food poisoning".