Palmolive Garden Tried To Implode My Face

by Kevin on February 6, 2012

I’ve spoken before about my mild dislike of the fancy noodle café better known as Olive Garden. I’ve made fun of nearly everything in there, but the fact is that they tried to kill me one time by imploding my face.

I was trying to impress my wife-to-be and decided to take one for the team and languish my cultural sophisti-my-cation  on this lovely woman. I had heard (possibly for the first and last time in our relationship) her say that Palmolive Garden was her favorite place to eat.

I held the door open for her and I was the consummate gentle-cowboy for about three minutes.

We sat down and the menu was in a foreign language. I finally figured out that “pasta” was used differently than cowboys use the word. When we use the word pasta, it’s usually something like: “Drive down pasta windmill and then hang a right past that spot where we roped that big heifer and nearly got us both killed.”

I find the best way to put fancy words in context is to substitute it with something you can actually wrap your noodle around—pun sort of intended. It made the menu come alive!!

  • Pasta Salad became: Weird spaghetti-like noodles in what might pass for a salad in New York City.
  • Lasagna became: Over-achieving spaghetti-like noodles filled with stuff you probably wouldn’t admit to eating.
  • Chicken Parmigiana became: Supposedly a fried-chicken covered with cheese substitute laying smack-down on a bed of spaghetti noodles that look like they came out of a play-do factory…we won’t even mention the amount of tomatoes that were sacrificed in the making of anything except salsa and ketchup.

After the inner-tormented hell of menu translation, the waiter asked if we would like a glass of wine. We both agreed that it might be nice to sip on a glass of wine, but I couldn’t find Strawberry Hill anywhere on the menu. The same dad-gummed feller that had written the menu had gotten hold of the wine list too.

In trying to keep my sophistication intact, I told him to bring us a nice red wine.

He showed back up minutes later and told us the name of the drink. I think he spit on me four times in the pronunciation.  Looking to calm my frazzled nerves, I lifted the petite glass (it wasn’t in a mason jar—to my demise) and took a drink. What happened next is not for the faint of heart.

This vile liquid assaulted my taste buds like I would imagine a dead and bloated goat might. Thousands of microscopic goat-head stickers tore at the nerve endings in my mouth. In the last possible moment, I was able to control my bowels and this brought a smile to my face. I knew I was about to die, but didn’t want to show any fear so I left the smile there.

Have you ever seen a movie where someone in the deep sea is crushed like a soda can by the immense pressure? That’s what happened to my internal organs when I swallowed. Little fingers grabbed my lips and tongue and dragged them inside my own mouth and down my throat…thus imploding my face.

I fought against the onslaught!! I would not go out like this!

My cowboy determination, honed from years of ridin’ bucking horses, sent the needed adrenaline to realign my pancreas and small intestine. I was not going to give up.

That glass of hell had looked so sweet. I had no idea that swirling around in that pretty glass must have been nothing more than the devil’s own bile.

The last thing I remembered seeing before I lost consciousness was the one thing I recognized…a bread stick. I grabbed it like a cowboy reaching for the saddle horn and shoved it in my mouth.

The Lord delivered me!

I sat there and caught my breath, all the while trying to keep my rattled composure intact. Christie looked at me with one eyebrow raised and asked, “What did you think?”

Before I could answer, the “Bringer-Of-The-Vile-Bile” dressed in black pants and white shirt had the nerve to ask me, “Would you like me to bring out another glass of that fine vintage for you sir?”

I pointed the empty glass at him and told him that if he ever tried to kill me like that again, I would beat him to death with what was left of the bread stick that had saved my life.

 “You sorry, uppity, holier-than-thou preachers and teachers are all hypocrites! Your cups look all pretty and nice on the outside, but inside they are full of greed and selfishness. You blind fools! First worry about making sure what’s in the cup is good and the rest will surely follow.” Matthew 23:25-26 Simplified Cowboy Version

Just so you all have been warned. The cure for dry wine is a long biscuit.

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  • Buster Mitchell

    Oh man did this ever hit home (the story and the verse)… I had practically the exact same thing happen to me about 25 years ago in a Palm-olive Garden!!! Someday I’ll have to tell you about the (almost) knife fight I had in a Benihana with our server!!!

    • Kevin

      You can’t leave us hanging like that!! A cowboy against a kung-fu kitchen cook is already great lead in.

  • That’s too funny! The verse speaks for itself! Brings to mind my experience with wine….seems there is a story there, so I won’t spoil it! Keep up the good words, brother!

    • Kevin

      I’ll be waiting on your story Cory. Great post on the rampaging elephants.

  • Ok…so your story cracked me up and made me LOL!

    Reminds me of the time my husband took me out for our anniversary and asked the waiter for horseradish to slather on his prime rib, and the guy said, “All we have is ATOMIC horseradish”. My hubby, being a hard-core West Texas guy, said, “Bring it on…” After he took a big bite and virtually spewed it all over the fine linen and floor (and me), with tears running down his face and gasping for air, he said, “Now that wasn’t too bad!” HA!

  • Jake

    I laughed out loud when I got to the part about reaching for the breadstick like a saddlehorn…had the wife read it and she laughed out loud at the same spot…probably ’cause she’s seen me make the same desperate move at Palmolive Garden. Let me suggest a glass of Dr. Pepper on the makes a good chaser and acts more as a nightlatch…something you can really grab a’holt of ’till the storm passes.

  • Paul Weatherby

    Reminds me of your previous incident with the ritzy young business man in Angelo wanting guacamole on the side. I still thank the Lord you didn’t “put” it on the side of his head on your way out! You listening to the Lord saved his soul and upper part of his body.
    TEMPERature can be controlled with a count to 300 and prayer
    Stay down Son

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