Pasta: Whole Wheat Linguine with Marinara Sauce
Side: Salad (no dressing)
Side: Salad (no dressing)
It had been a long day and I was finishing it with a happy hour Moscow Mule when I saw a writer friend at the end of the bar. I waved hello and before I could say anything, he yelled at me “I saw you’re doing that Olive Garden thing!”
Yes, yes I am doing that Olive Garden thing.
So later that night, when it was proposed that we “get tacos at a taco truck,” I politely declined. No tacos for me, thanks. I’ve got Olive Gardening to do.
It was 9:15, only 45 minutes until closing time, and I was all the way in Hollywood. I decided to call in the order. I pulled out my phone and called Olive Garden, while also quickly scanning social media. I saw that lots of people were a) curious about this blog and b) concerned for my health. Well, I’m glad people are curious about my pasta cleanse. And… I totally share your concerns.
So when a server picked up the phone and asked what I’d like to order, I said whole wheat linguine with marinara sauce and no meat. The Olive Garden equivalent of a Veggie Wrap. For my healthy side order, I got salad, no dressing. “You sure? We have ranch.” Don’t tempt me, Satan.
Yes, yes I am doing that Olive Garden thing.
So later that night, when it was proposed that we “get tacos at a taco truck,” I politely declined. No tacos for me, thanks. I’ve got Olive Gardening to do.
It was 9:15, only 45 minutes until closing time, and I was all the way in Hollywood. I decided to call in the order. I pulled out my phone and called Olive Garden, while also quickly scanning social media. I saw that lots of people were a) curious about this blog and b) concerned for my health. Well, I’m glad people are curious about my pasta cleanse. And… I totally share your concerns.
So when a server picked up the phone and asked what I’d like to order, I said whole wheat linguine with marinara sauce and no meat. The Olive Garden equivalent of a Veggie Wrap. For my healthy side order, I got salad, no dressing. “You sure? We have ranch.” Don’t tempt me, Satan.
As I drove into the parking structure, I noticed the same parking lot attendant from the night before. In my head, I wondered if we would have a rapport soon. “Back again? You sure do love pasta.” “I know, can’t get enough.” She’d take my ticket, raise the gate, and as I exit we’d both say “see you tomorrow” and smile and laugh. Good times.
The Olive Garden in Glendale is located in a huge complex consisting of random office buildings and chain restaurants. Indie restaurants have occasionally popped up. At one point there was a fancy Filipino restaurant that my parents disliked (“too fancy”). They all failed. Only the chains remained.
The Olive Garden in Glendale is located in a huge complex consisting of random office buildings and chain restaurants. Indie restaurants have occasionally popped up. At one point there was a fancy Filipino restaurant that my parents disliked (“too fancy”). They all failed. Only the chains remained.
Having now done this before, I knew the Pasta Pass protocol: I’d tell the host I was getting take-out, get my parking validated, then wait at the bar for my food to come. At the bar, I saw a familiar face: it was the same guy from last night who also picked up food. Like me, he is one of 10 people in Glendale who has a Never Ending Pasta Pass.
I felt an immediate kinship, a bond. He was wearing gym clothes, just like the night before. I had so many questions. Did you just come from the 24 Hour Fitness across the street? Do you get pasta after working out? Are you actually carbo loading? Do you lift? HOW DO I BEFRIEND YOU
I felt an immediate kinship, a bond. He was wearing gym clothes, just like the night before. I had so many questions. Did you just come from the 24 Hour Fitness across the street? Do you get pasta after working out? Are you actually carbo loading? Do you lift? HOW DO I BEFRIEND YOU
Before I could introduce myself, my food came, brought by Stacey, the same cheery server from the night before. “Thomas?” She knew my name. We have a rapport, me and my good friend Stacey. I asked her if she needed to see my Pasta Pass. “No, we know you now.”
They knew me. Olive Garden knows me.
They knew me. Olive Garden knows me.
In an effort to normalize this two month pasta experiment, I went home, turned on the TV, and ate dinner while watching Gotham. I was just a normal human eating a normal dinner of Olive Garden take-out for the second night in a row.
Gotham, like my pasta, was adequate, I guess. Both were bland and not very satisfying, but it was there, so why not. The sauce was watery on top, oily on bottom. The whole wheat linguine was bland and rope-like. It was hospital food. I was Ray Liotta, stuck in witness protection, eating wet noodles and ketchup.
Gotham, like my pasta, was adequate, I guess. Both were bland and not very satisfying, but it was there, so why not. The sauce was watery on top, oily on bottom. The whole wheat linguine was bland and rope-like. It was hospital food. I was Ray Liotta, stuck in witness protection, eating wet noodles and ketchup.
The no-dressing-salad was probably the best part of the meal. It was refreshing. I needed it to cleanse the palette. And frankly, my mind and body. Eating this much pasta requires some roughage to balance things out.
And that’s really what I have to do. Balance. I need to exercise more, and eat bland no-meat-pasta, and decent no-dressing-salad once in awhile.
But as long as I have my good friends parking lot attendant, gym clothes guy, and Stacey, I know I can do it. See you tomorrow.
And that’s really what I have to do. Balance. I need to exercise more, and eat bland no-meat-pasta, and decent no-dressing-salad once in awhile.
But as long as I have my good friends parking lot attendant, gym clothes guy, and Stacey, I know I can do it. See you tomorrow.