I am an eater. A good one. I like eating. I love eating. More than you, in fact. I am a foodie. At least a self described one. Food is what I enjoy. I eat out too much, but they are at least at good restaurants. I cook every once in a while too. And I am even sort of good at that. I would cook more if I didn’t hate my kitchen. It’s too small. And it has electric burners. Worthless. Why am I going to Olive Garden then? Salad and Breadsticks. And irony. Well those and it was Sunday night in Salt Lake City. Not much is open on Sunday night in Salt Lake City. I had a partner. Amanda. She was like me. So we together ventured towards the downtown Olive Garden, we opened the door and uncomfort smacked us across the face.
The inside of Olive Garden looks like a movie set of what Italy looks like in campy 70s films. You don’t have to sell me on the fact that I am being whisked to Italy. I know that I am not. A few steps in: “Welcome to the Olive Garden!” Used car salesmen think Olive Garden employees come on too strong. They greet us as if they care that we are here. Foot off the gas pedal slick, we get we’re at the Olive Garden. In terms of jobs people hate, Olive Garden is a lock for the top ten. Stop pretending you like this. I know that you don’t. “Is it just the two of you tonight?” “Yes.” “Okay well there is about a 10 minute wait.” Fuck. Not only am I at the Olive Garden, ironically, but there is a wait. “But if you’d like to sit in the café you’re more than welcome; same service, same menu. “Yeah that should be fine.” “Okay, help yourselves to a seat.”
