"God, it's so Ragu!!!"
Written: Jul 25 '01 (Updated Jul 25 '01)
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Pros: Will very likely be out of business soon in Westbury, New York.
Cons: Salty, fatty, cold, slow, gross - need I go on?
The Bottom Line: Lunch with a friend became a torturous battle of wills among my several selves. Read on for the horrific details.
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| thom413's Full Review: Olive Garden |
That's what my full-blooded Italian buddy Dominick said in derision when served the gloppy pasta mess. Ragu, in addition to being a wildly popular jarred pasta sauce, is also an insult flung by "real" Italians at anything pretending to be Italian. Most Italian folks here in New York know that a quick filleto di pomodoro tomato sauce can be whipped up from fresh ingredients in a matter of a few minutes, and therefore, scoff at sauce from a jar and those who use it. "Ragu", in its' most pejorative sense, perfectly describes Olive Garden. On to the tale of woe and wasted food.
1. Why we were there... I had a coupon. The Yankee Puritan half of my psyche (Lord Thomas), extolling the virtue of thrift, shouted down the Italian half (IL Duce Tomasso), who was furiously arguing that good Italian restaurants are everywhere on Long Island, and it was nonsensical to eat at a chain that would very likely kill us, all in the name of saving a few dinare. As persuasive as IL Duce was, there is nothing like generational guilt combined with a strict budget to overcome common sense and experience. Lord Thomas was well and truly pleased at having gotten his way. This did not last long.
2. Where we were... On Old Country Road in Westbury, Long Island's Restaurant Row. Across the street from Spasso, a respectable Italian eatery with bangin' alfredo sauce and garlic bread. Down the road from Baci, another slightly more expensive place with puttanesca sauce to die for. We were, in short, nowhere where we should have been. Lord Thomas led the way to the psuedo-Tuscan-style building, and if he'd had a waistcoat and tri-cornered hat, he would have adjusted both in smug satisfaction. IL Duce followed, muttering threats and imprecations while staring at his sandal-shod feet. We were not, overall, a happy group...
Lord Thomas: "Fie upon the wastrels, we shall dine and have more than tuppence left! Oh, callooh, callay!" **
IL Duce Tomasso: "Vene, Vidi... Vomit."
Dominick: "I would so appreciate you cutting out the muttering. You make me nervous. Is it time for your pill?"
Inside was dim and cool, with the expected tile floors and faux-stucco archways. We were lethargically escorted to our table by an apathetic hostess whose smile had a rather Stepford-Fembot quality. Artwork on the walls was nondescript and sparse. Our table, in one of several small dining rooms, was swathed in flawless linen and had rustic (read: uncomfortable) wooden chairs. The overall effect was surreal, like a Disneyfied Tuscan cafeteria. Having been to Italy, and Tuscany, I found this to be a vaguely insulting. Just a few more details - sunny windows with shutters, flowers on the table, non-Ikea artwork - would have made the place more authentic and appealing. The music was cheesy mandolins that would have sent Tony Soprano running for his pistola. As it was, IL Duce clapped his hands over his ears, removing one only to give a very Commodus-like thumbs down. It always looked so much less sinister when Siskel and Ebert used to do it.
Our server, Mike, was earnest and pleasant. This would not save him. He brought us bread (warm and fresh) and salad (fresh, but with low-quality olive oil in the dressing). Then, he disappeared. We polished off these in short order, but no one returned. We were drinkless and foodless! We asked another server for Mike's whereabouts, and about 15 minutes later, he graced us with his presence. "Everything OK?", he chirped. Lord Thomas spoke: "It would be, sirrah, if you'd deign to take our order to the scullery, forthwith!" "Oh, yeah, sorry 'bout that!", said Mike. "Not yet, you're not!", countered Dominick brightly. After a few mutual ankle kicks, we ordered.
3. What we had... The menu is simple pastas in a variety of shapes (linguini, tortellini, penne) and a variety of sauces (primavera, bolognese, alfredo). Lasagna and ziti are available, as are several grilled seafood, chicken and "steak" accompaniments. I ordered fettucini alfredo; Dominick, lasagna. A lighter menu is available as well. It isn't necessary, since the regular selections are so fatty and salty that they are only semi-edible. The wine list is short, poorly chosen, and overpriced. I had what was quite possibly the nastiest glass of Cabernet ever in my life. I switched to iced tea. Correct me if I'm wrong, but is iced tea supposed to be almost clear? Thought not. Even Lord Thomas was getting cheesed off by the desecration of his national libation. Mike did not give us any clue about the wait, but he did keep coming by and loading up the bread basket, and pouring more tea that made me want to re-enact a pre-American Revolutionary incident.
Our food, when we got it forty-five minutes later, was a horror show. My fetuccini was so salty I couldn't eat more than a few bites, and the sauce had started to separate - a clear sign of reheating and low quality ingredients. All the pepper in the world couldn't save it. Dominick's lasagna was semi-frozen in the center. He was horrified. IL Duce wept in sympathy, vowing that revenge would be just as cold. I was just annoyed, and when Lord Thomas meekly suggested that perhaps it could be reheated, I silenced him with the suggestion that he take a one way trip to the basement, next to the cask of Amontillado.
We were not stupid enough to stay for dessert. A polite, but firm chat with the manager about our dissatisfaction went nowhere. Lord Thomas made himself useful for the first time all day. "Sir, I will never darken the door of this disgraceful hovel ever again. A pox upon thee, and all thy heirs and assigns!" With that, we all swept grandly out. Mike got a lousy tip.
IL Duce: "I told you, did I not? By Jupiter and all that's holy, did I not warn of this?"
Lord Thomas: "So you did, O Wise One. My parsimony cost us dearly. Woe, oh woe, are we."
IL Duce: "Will you not even afford me the satisfaction of a blood-stirring argument? You northern barbarians have not the backbone of a clam!"
Dominick: "Why do I hang out with you? Stop with the multiple personalities already. One is PLENTY, believe me."
4. What it cost... Lunch for two, um, I mean FOUR, was a wasted $28.64, with coupon. My sanity will cost a bit more, says the doctor.
** "Callooh, callay!", copyrighted by repulsemonkey, as reported in annexation's Epinions dictionary.
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thom413
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Member: Thomas Tronolone
Location: Long Beach, New York
Reviews written: 113
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"Those friends thou hast ... grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel." Hamlet
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