To think it was less than 2 years ago that I first stepped foot onto the paved-in-gold sidewalks of NYC...although back then I didn't know that "paved in gold" referred to dog urine.
I mean, seriously, Pine-Sol that shit.
Upon my first visit, I was both in shock and awe of one dining establishment that seemed to tower over the rest. This establishment glowed in the center of Times Square. This restaurant seemed to say "DINE HERE! WE ARE THE HEART AND SOUL OF NYC DINING! WHY WOULD YOU COME TO NEW YORK TO DINE ANYWHERE ELSE!?"
That restaurant was none other than the Olive Garden.
There were, of course, hundreds of Olive Gardens scattered around every corner of the Midwest. I, of course, had never dined at a single one.
But this Olive Garden seemed special. New York City was the center of world culture and this Olive Garden was at the center of New York City. So for two years I dreamed of the day I would dine at the center of world culture.
Well, I could wait no longer. Well....I could wait the extra 40 minutes it took to get a table for two.
My VIP lifestyle bfflz MRudd (think Paris and Nicole...I'm Paris DUH...but he's like Nicole Simple Life Season 2 when she got cute) planned the excursion for over a week. With our busy schedules full of meetings, soirees, and guest appearances, we could only manage to make it happen on this special rainy Wednesday evening.
We entered through the revolving doors and felt transported to the heart of Tuscany (if Tuscany were having a peasant revolution). We waited for a gruesome 40 minutes amongst commoners on the second floor...overlooking roof construction. Once our buzzer went off, we climbed to the third floor and stood next to a group of 6 hostesses waiting to be recognized. THE HELL either of us was going to raise our voices to be noticed, even in this bull-run of a restaurant.
We were starting to become disheartened by the time we were seated in our corner booth (at least they remembered to give us the power table). Just when we had given up hope, our angel approached.
Melissa was a middle-aged portly woman with long blonde hair in a ratty bun and a monotone voice. At first glance, Melissa appeared to be just another washout bussed in from Jersey to serve the elite of the city. But I could see past her facade of hopelessness. She was the saving grace of the Olive Garden.
Not only did Melissa make sure MRudd and I knew exactly how long everything would take (she could do almost anything in "2 minutes") she offered us the works. ENDLESS SALAD AND BREAD STICKS?! She may as well have brought us edible bars of gold. When we were thirsty and our Diet Cokes had been emptied, she was right there with a pitcher to refill our goblets.
It was only when we noticed her impeccable manicure of turquoise and silver swirls that we knew for sure she was something special. I told her of my dreams of dining at this very Olive Garden and we relished in the joy she had brought us through her simple gifts of salad and bread sticks. I complimented her obvious skill in sprinkling the fresh Parmesan cheese atop our pasta.
Feeling completely full and satisfied, we asked Melissa for the bill.
and there inside were not just two mint-chocolate Olive Garden brand treats...but a hand full of 15. Melissa loved us back.
I gave her a generous tip beyond the included 18% gratuity and we exited the building
past the booths blocked off with caution tape
past the $7 bottles of wine
past the sad faces of tourists who had not won the Mamma Mia lottery
out of Tuscany and back onto the piss-stained streets of the city.
For one magical night we had dined at the center of world culture.
So what it gave me the shits,
TJB: Making It
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