Olive Garden and The American Dream
On Halloween night of 1989, a Batman-masked gunman carrying a trick-or-treat bag attempted a hit on Philly mob boss son Nicky Scarfo Jr. inside Dante & Luigi’s restaurant at 10th & Catherine. Experts say the shooting marked a shift in Philly Mob authority after Nicodemo Scarfo Sr.’s bloody reign.
In equally riveting Italian-American history, I went to Olive Garden on Wednesday. And I’m ready to talk about it.
I was visiting my best friend Rachel at her mom’s house in Bernville, a rural suburb of Reading, Pennsylvania, when we were overcome with midday hunger. Shuffling through the options, scant and mostly chains, Rachel looked at me with wild eyes and in that moment I knew: my Italian card was headed for the incinerator.
We chose the Garden with this mischievous conviction that left us side-eying each other the whole ride there, communicating in quiet, breathy laughs as if we were about to TP her high school ex’s house. “Remember the TOUR OF ITALY,” I exclaimed in disbelief, recalling a menu option featuring “Three OG classics all on one plate! Chicken Parmigiana, Lasagna Classico and our signature Fettuccine Alfredo—all with homemade sauces made fresh every morning.” (olivegarden.com) I had a history of housing this Schedule I narcotic feast before my metabolism was a thing of concern; before I had city taste; before I could recognize American excess as categorically bad.
When we finally slid into the parking lot, it was just us and a sweet, elderly couple who held the door and wheezed, “You ladies go ahead!” When you’re here, you’re family.
I wanted to get pasta. I really did. I was desperate to spite myself and to brag that “I had PASTA from OLIVE GARDEN” with the most hipster irony I could summon. But I’m loyal to a mood, and my mood was unlimited soup, salad, and bread sticks. At a mythical $7.99, it was Rachel’s mood, too.
As we plowed through dual servings of all three, we relished the crisp, chilled lettuce in their signature dressing. The way it became a staple of the American fridge when it was released in stores. We cracked pepper over creamy chicken and gnocchi soup, plunging golden, hot bread sticks in for bites so indulgent, we couldn’t help laughing each time.
Rachel and I spent our entire meal at Olive Garden talking about the fact that we were at Olive Garden. Living in a city where we can eat a six-course, family-style Moroccan dinner on tasseled pillows, red and gold, while belly dancers flutter between tables, there’s a natural aversion to chain restaurants. It’s less the snobbery my parents accuse me of and more an appreciation for the wealth of independent cultural gems one has access to in a metropolis.
Yet deep within our marrow lies a nostalgia for these establishments. We still want Red Lobster cheddar bay biscuits and Chili’s fajitas and TGI Friday’s potato skins and a goddamn Tour of Italy, which is more like a tour of gastrointestinal hell, but nonetheless a nod to freedom of choice. We still want them because they remind us of simpler times—not necessarily better, but simpler. Before we knew as much about everything, food and otherwise. I think back to when the highlight of my friends’ and I’s weeks was going for half-price appetizers at Applebee’s. I didn’t have a smartphone and I always ordered a strawberry lemonade. Part of me mourns that girl and will do what it takes to preserve her memory, like go for lunch at Olive Garden on a Wednesday afternoon.
“It could all be so simple,” Rachel and I kept repeating, as if Olive Garden was a metaphor for life itself. And maybe it is, though I’ve yet to determine how. But between the pandemic travel bans, the Lana Del Rey I’ve been listening to, the Joan Didion I’ve been reading, and the upcoming election, I have a thirst for some hint of reliability in the American dream. I lost faith in a two party system a long time ago, but I never lost it in Applebee’s 2 for $20.