Volume 4, Issue 14
July 11, 2002 - July 24, 2002
Review commited by Pete Yribia
You've seen the commercial. Big salt-of-the-earth Italian-American family eating their weekly feast at Olive Garden. Old uncle what's-his-nuts regales the kids with stories of the old country. They laugh, the wine is flowing. And the food? Why, they must've stolen Mama's recipes!
Attention: This scenario takes place in the same alternate universe where Mexican-Americans hold their family reunions at Taco Bell. They cram into the plastic booths, eat quasi-Mexican delights off the 99 cent menu and cheer, "Vive Taco Bell!" in between mouthfuls of Baja Chalupa. Br-r-r-A-haaaa! In other words, any Italian family caught dead in The Olive Garden should all be beaten severely about the face and neck and forcibly dragged back to their home in Highlands Ranch.
Another commercial of theirs features the "fine Italian chef" who creates the menu. Now, I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings but I heard she's actually just a struggling actor in L.A....Well actually, just a bag lady they paid with a bottle of Chianti di Thunderbird right before taping the commercial. Adding insult to injury, they stole her recipe for pork-n-bean/government cheese soufflé and renamed it Tuscan Lasagna.
Me and my date dined at the Olive Garden located in that mini-mall swimming in that sea of similarly painted mini-mansions. You know which one I'm talking about, right? One positive aspect of The Olive Garden is they serve you all the salad and breadsticks you can choke down before your entreé arrives--thereby dulling your appetite into submission. The breadsticks were of consistent size, shape, and "Country Crock"-edness. The machine that excreted them did a fine job. Way to go Stick-O-Tron 5000! The salad was served in a bowl but tasted similar to McDonald's fine line of "McSalad Shakers." (Personally, I like my chunks of iceberg lettuce and genetically modified tomatoes shaken with lots of cool-n-creamy ranch! )
For our entrees, my date sampled the (insert generic Italian dish here) while I opted for the less glorpy but equally mass-produced (dish 2) Now, I'm not sure of the method of preparation (microwave? Tepid heat lamp?) but both came out looking like a bastard love child of Chef Boyardee and Martha Stewart's mentally challenged niece. And the flavor? Well, let me just say that test marketing your "cuisine" to stoned junior high kids at the mall probably isn't a winning strategy. Those kids really aren't as picky as one might think.
But c'mon now, was I really hoping for a scrumptious and romantic dinner at The Olive Garden? Naaah. Although there was a moment where me and my date almost recreated the scene from Lady and the Tramp. You know --soft accordion music, candlelight, slurping spaghetti up into a bashful first kiss. Except in our version we're listening to canned Italian muzak and vomiting uncontrollably into each other's lap.
The multi-national conglomerate that owns these places should quit the restaurant game and stick to lording over the workers at their Guatemalan sweatshops.
A few pertinent questions to close: Is it fair to say The Olive Garden's food tastes like one part Food Club artificial tomato paste and one part Elmer's glue. Yes. A fair assessment. Is eating there better than a romantic sojourn for two in the Italian Alps? No. That would be somewhat inaccurate. Does your mom sport a metal afro with rusty sideburns? Yes. Sadly, yes.
Pete was one of the finalists for our Food Critic Position -- and even though he lost out to the lovely Delilah Delish (who will start next issue), trust that you'll see him in the pages of Go-Go again.
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