Carb-Induced
Self-Reflection
My Life on Olive Garden’s Pasta Pass
By Billy Domineau
Illustrations by Celeste Byers
I liked Olive Garden, to begin with. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful/horrible/really fucking stupid can come of this story. For years I have eaten there with some regularity, enjoyed their soup and breadsticks, and planned to continue dining there, as appropriate and proper, for the foreseeable future. I have never held up Olive Garden (for the true name is Olive Garden, not The Olive Garden) as an exemplar of authentic, or even good Italian food, but neither have I seen it as bad or disgusting or a “faux-Mediterranean shitbox,” as I have at times heard it described. I do not particularly like pasta, but Olive Garden has dozens of non-pasta offerings, which I found satisfactory, and, again, the soup and the breadsticks. Olive Garden was fine, and, to me, that was good. Permit me to repeat, emphatically, that I liked Olive Garden. Now move that statement to the present tense and I can’t yet say if it’s true.
What follows here is the first in a series of essays inspired by my experience with the Olive Garden Pasta Pass — the Amex Black of chain gluttony, an express ticket to carbohydrate-induced self-reflection. I have eaten countless pasta lunches and dinners at Olive Garden, fourteen of them taking place in the first week alone. In those seven days I wouldn’t say I hit rock bottom so much as writhed about in the gravel I had laid. I became bitter yet optimistic, detached yet engaged, sick yet healthy. I ate a lot of bad food served by very nice people. I wallowed in moronic self-pity and maybe got a little bit of my shit together. Put simply, I ate too much pasta, and it made me think some thoughts.
One thousand Olive Garden Pasta Passes went on sale on Monday, September 8, at 3:00 p.m. The announcement was sudden, only showing up in news outlets that morning. I found out about the offer when my ex-girlfriend posted the story on my Facebook wall, in an act of heroism that forced me to question why I call her an “ex”-girlfriend.
The basic terms were thus — purchase a Pasta Pass for $100 and for seven weeks, the holder is entitled to as many free Pasta Bowl meals as he desires. Each meal comes with a choice of six pastas (spaghetti, angel hair, fettuccine, cavatappi, penne, whole-wheat linguini) six sauces (marinara, alfredo, meat sauce, five-cheese marinara, spicy-three meat, roasted mushroom alfredo), and four meat toppings (meatballs, Italian sausage, chicken fritta, shrimp fritta), with no limit on the number of plates or combinations that may be consumed in one sitting. Also included is the choice of soup or salad and unlimited breadsticks. Bottomless Coca-Cola brand soft drinks are provided for the holder and any other guests at the table, with the only charge being a suggested gratuity.
As I said, I don’t particularly like pasta. My typical entree at Olive Garden is Chicken Marsala, a no-go under these terms. The offer of soup, salad, and breadsticks was what really piqued my interest.
On multiple occasions in the past few years I have been completely broke and sustained myself for days on Olive Garden gift cards my mom happened to have lying around her house (apparently this is the standard Christmas/ end-of-year gift for elementary school speech pathologists). Zuppa Toscana, a welcome blend of “spicy sausage, fresh kale, and russet potatoes in a creamy broth,” has guided me through hard times with its own endless refills. Ultimately, I was sure I’d handle the pasta just fine, and hey, maybe I’d turn the experience into an article.
There were obvious cons. Olive Garden has never claimed its food to be particularly healthy. I could envision myself at the end of seven weeks, a walking insulin pump encrusted in sodium and grease. Normally I run five or six miles a day and can shed a cool 800 calories, but one week earlier I’d broken my foot and looked less a marathoner and more your aunt after she fell in line at Disney World. Oh, and I’d probably have to turn it into an story of some kind.
At 3:00 p.m., I, along with an estimated 500,000 other prospective diners, visited Olive Garden’s website. The obscene level of traffic was readily apparent — time outs, redirects, minutes-long load times. To continue charging head-first seemed as foolish as the actions of Helen Hunt in Twister. I could keep telling myself this vain pursuit was for science, but deep down it must be about filling some dark emotional void at the risk of Bill Paxton getting hurt. Even as I watched Cary Elwes get carried away by F5 winds, I entered my credit card information and strapped myself to the barn, awaiting confirmation. Minutes later, it came: “Congratulations on your purchase of one Olive Garden Pasta Pass.”
I had two weeks to prepare for the weight I was soon to carry, to ready myself physically, mentally, spiritually, and such-and-such. I didn’t do that. I did nothing. The one thing I did do was what any reporter does at the outset of a sensationalist article about too much food — I went to a doctor. Actually it was an urgent care clinic by trade, but I called up ahead of time and asked if they could handle a physical (they assured me they could). One hour later that physical consisted of a doctor listening to my heartbeat, asking how I felt (“Fine?”). Bless the patience of these modern day Dr. Quinns.
Day 1
Monday, September 22nd
Lunch: 1,135 Calories
⅔ Bowl of Spaghetti w/ Marinara
2 Meatballs
⅖ Bowl of Salad
2 ½ Breadsticks
1 Coca-Cola
I began my binge at the spot where the vast majority of my pasta eating would and still continues to take place: the 6th Avenue Olive Garden at 22nd Street, in Manhattan’s Flatiron District. The decor is the standard you’d find in any Olive Garden across the country — wide tables, plush booths, a fake trellis or two — with maybe a touch more stonework to impress us big city folk. The patrons are a non-specific mix of white and pink-collar workers with a taste for frozen margaritas and international tourists who have become lost while looking for “The Trade Center of Liberty.” I sat at a booth. The hostess informed me that my waiter would tell me all about the details of the Never Ending Pasta Bowl. I was already well aware. I looked out the window. “It’s raining.” I said that. So did Mark Zuckerberg in The Social Network.
What mistakes transpired in my career that made this promotional gimmick deserving of my attention, or at least capable of compelling it?
I was surprised that my presentation of the Pasta Pass to my server wasn’t met with more fanfare. I don’t need a parade, but to say I wasn’t hoping for an “Ahh! Abso-LUTELY, Sir!” would be a fib. Would it have killed him to clap twice, summoning a cellist and straight-razor barber? I’ll take this time to officially state that every Olive Garden server I have had so far has been attentive, courteous, and reasonably enthusiastic. (Special shout-outs to Kiera and Larry at 6th Avenue. Kiera calls me “Babe,” and Larry has a cartilage piercing worthy of a Bam Margera sidekick. They’re my parents.)
For my first meal, I started simple: salad, spaghetti with marinara and meatballs, and a Coke. I only had two rules for my experience: try every pasta, sauce, meat option, and soup at least once and have at least one breadstick with every meal. While I waited, I heard someone in the kitchen scream, as if their back had just been broken with a baseball bat. Omens are fun.
I have probably been to Olive Garden 25 or 30 times in my life, suggesting it when friends have looked to me to plan an evening. I must enjoy it. But sitting down with an actively critical eye changed things.
First came the salad, and yes, the breadsticks. I bit into a breadstick and started to chew. My brain paused. Words formed. “This is a condensed loaf of warm Wonderbread. This is a soft, salty penis.” The salad, which I would normally look to as an unobtrusive way to tell myself I’d eaten vegetables that day, was suddenly wilted and overdressed.
Next the pasta. Fuck. To be clear, (almost) none of the food that I ate at Olive Garden was inedible. Were I to make it myself, it would go down quickly and probably appear on my Instagram. It’s stepping back and realizing that you’re paying real amounts of money and that a multi-billion dollar corporation purposefully produces this quality of food for millions of people everyday that is the gut punch. It’s not Earth-shattering; it’s not terrible. But so often things that are terrible falter because they strive to be great. This is food that dreamed of growing up and earning an associate’s degree. It hurts when your heroes don’t try. That hurt was soon compounded by a very real pain in my shoulders and chest. There will be no second bowl today.
Dinner: 1,456 Calories
1 Bowl of Whole Wheat Linguini
w/ Five Cheese Marinara and Chicken Fritta
1 Bowl of Zuppa Toscana
1 ⅓ Breadsticks
1 Sprite
Before I even arrived back at 22nd Street that evening, I was already debating a departure from the Pasta Pass. I didn’t want the soda. Packing on untold chewed calories with every meal was going to be depressing enough. I didn’t need to feel like I was also sipping my way to Type-2 Diabetes. For this meal, I decided on a momentary compromise, something that would straddle the line between soda and water. I drank a Sprite.
Dinner was whole-wheat linguini with five-cheese marinara and a bowl of Zuppa Toscana to start. Zuppa Toscana, my longtime Olive Garden favorite. Sausage, bacon, potatoes, and kale all simmering in a light creamy broth. My sister first introduced me to it. We don’t really talk anymore. Replace the dark aspects of her personality with Zuppa Toscana, and I’ll pick up the phone right now.
But again, suddenly nothing tasted as it should. The ingredients all felt separate, not combined in one cohesive dish. Temperature, texture. Nothing was right. I tried to write constructive notes in my journal, but all I produced was violent scribbles and all-caps profanity. I wanted so badly to escape. A child wandered away from his table and nearly set-off the alarm on the emergency exit before being corralled by his father. It was the worst parenting I’d ever seen. Let your children run free, that they may lead us all by example.
I was determined to let good come of these meals, even as my morale waned. Unlimited pasta doesn’t just mean unlimited while you’re at the table — you get an extra dish to take home as well. Olive Garden is not allowed in my home until further notice, but there’s no reason someone else shouldn’t eat free warm food. Unless I was pressed for time, I’d order an additional round of whatever I was having in a to-go box and then find someone on the street, down on their luck, to give it to. After this second meal it was an elderly man asking for change right outside the front door of the restaurant. No doubt countless people with leftover bags had already passed him. That afternoon I’d found a man at 19th Street and 5th Ave lying on the sidewalk with a cardboard sign. Just before I placed down the bag, a FedEx delivery guy pushing a 200 pound dolley ran over the man’s foot three times — front and back wheels, then back wheel again trying to correct. The man didn’t scream “Oww”, he just said it, seemingly adding it to the list of things that currently hurt him. New York City is both the easiest and hardest place in the world to complain.
The next day, I awoke and immediately examined myself in a mirror. Logically, I knew my stomach could not have gotten appreciably flabbier overnight, just from two consecutive Olive Garden meals. I’m a man(child) who regularly sits down and eats a half carton of Chips Ahoy. But there it lay, a jiggly paunch casting the slightest of shadows on the elastic of my boxer briefs. I should have taken a picture. It was Tinder GOLD. Time to put on clothes.
Day 2
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Lunch: 1,793 Calories
⅔ Bowl of Fettuccine
w/ Roasted Mushroom Alfredo
2 Italian Sausages
¾ Bowl of Salad
1 ½ Breadsticks
1 Club Soda
Seeing those homeless people on the first day did a great deal to slap me out of my poor-me mentality. I tried to pump myself a bit more for round two. This is a privilege. This is an opportunity. This is exciting and light and just plain fun. When I sat down at the bar, I watched a man eat his salad straight out of the serving bowl. When he asked for a refill, the waitress had to play a delicate game of sliding a new one in and the old one out as if she was swapping a golden idol for sand. I had sincere worries she would find herself stabbed with a fork and her hand accidentally eaten.
Soda no more. It’s too much. Going forward, my drink of choice will be club soda with lemon and lime. It makes me feel vaguely like a character making a one time appearance in a cocktail party scene on The West Wing, probably a sober blue-dog democrat with opinions on the new foreign ops bill. Do not cross my caucus.
Pasta was fettuccine with Italian sausage and Roasted Mushroom Alfredo. Have you ever watched a cow eat three tons of truffles that somehow get mixed up inside and are excreted out her utters? This is not necessarily a complaint. Just know that the sauce was rich.
Far more interesting to me than the act of reviewing dishes was reviewing individual foods. I shunned vegetables as a child and even now am by default weary of bringing them into the fold. Perhaps this was the right time to stare into the untouched parts of my salad and sample these forbidden fruits (vegetables). First, a black olive. Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Mealy, grainy, slimy. It had the smokiness of my favorite single-malt scotch but certainly not the vanilla nor oak nor anything else redeeming. I’ll not be back for a second helping. Next, a banana pepper. Notes of rubberiness, chewyocity, and seeds-inside-it. A mild heat comparable to placing Tobasco directly on your lips as part of a dare in middle school. I won’t mind if I end up eating a few of these accidentally.
Dinner: 1,101 Calories
1/2 Bowl of Whole Wheat Linguini w/ Meat Sauce
2 Meatballs
⅔ Bowl of Salad
2 Breadsticks
2 Club Sodas
During this meal came the first signs of the illness that would rob me of much of my newly found optimism and plunge me, for the next five days, into a mindset of “Please God let this Midas-esque lesson be over.” It was just a standard cold, the usual congestion and coughing and sneezing that’s more at home in a Chili’s. Olive Garden did not make me sick. I will say this is the first time a cold of mine has ever gone into laryngitis, but I do think a hoarse screech is the most authentic way to ask for more cheese on your soup.
I treasure moments that force me to question my sanity.
Pop quiz: should Olive Garden’s in-house soundtrack include grunge music? No, it should include the works of Sinatra, Martin, Bublé, a collection of past and present crooners singing standards heard at a 1974 retirement party for Jerry Calderone, assistant sales manager and one hell of a guy—we’ll miss ya! So when Soundgarden’s Black Hole Sun plays in an Olive Garden, it’s disconcerting, exponentially more so when it’s not actually Soundgarden, but jazz balladeer Paul Anka. The next day I got to hear his rendition of Smells Like Teen Spirit. There’s nothing quite like Anka’s vocals popping with swing delight on “A mosquito! / My libido!” But at this moment I was not familiar with Anka’s experimental phase, so naturally I began to wonder if I’d accidentally lobotomized myself with a breadstick. It felt as if Olive Garden was itself a black hole, warping spacetime, attracting and bending any matter, light, and music under its gravitational influence, and ultimately compressing it all into an infinitely dense singularity located in the center of my brain. I put down my spoon. How did I know the soup wasn’t eating me?
Day 3
September 24, 2014
Lunch: 829 Calories
⅔ Bowl of Angel Hair w/ Marinara and Shrimp Fritta
⅓ Bowl of Salad
1 Breadstick
2 Club Sodas
Lunch today was a welcome reprieve from the NYC Garden I now called home. I found myself in New England for a few hours, home briefly in Massachusetts to buy a car I’ll soon drive cross-country as part of my upcoming move to Los Angeles. Don’t worry, it’s every bit as cool as you think—a silver 2003 Volvo V70 wagon with 161,000 miles for $3000. I named him Lyle Lanley, because buying him was just as smart as investing in a monorail.
For the first time, I dined with a partner, my father, just as we have dined together numerous times over the past dozen years at this and several other local Olive Gardens. He’s also a Chicken Marsala fan, and he left satisfied as always. “I just think they do a really good job with it. I mean, it’s probably not like what it is in Italy, but yeah — what do you think?” He’s not wrong. I tried angel hair with marinara and “shrimp fritta”. That’s code for “popcorn shrimp thrown atop the rest.”
Though I’ve come to this Olive Garden often with my parents, it’s eating here with a less traditional “family” that brings back stronger memories. I used to come here regularly with my first girlfriend and her roommate for what we termed “family dinners.” Every now and then, usually on a Saturday night, we’d load into my car and drive to the OG in South Attleboro, MA for a simultaneously ironic and sincere celebration of our misfit nuclear unit. We’ve been broken up for three years. We’ve each moved on to… differing degrees. Now I sit alone, with the ability to order food enough for a thousand fake families but not one to actually feed. On some level this feels less like a meal than it does the first half of a Viagra commercial. I have yet to talk to my doctor about food impotence; my old truck is still stuck in the mud of poor emotional circulation.
Dinner: 1,140 Calories
¾ Bowl of Penne w/ Spicy Three Meat Sauce
1 Bowl of Zuppa Toscana
1 ¾ Breadsticks
1 Club Soda
Back in the city, I was forced to take my meal in a to-go bag due to a rehearsal I was running late for. It’s perfectly within the rules of the pass to take a meal to-go, but something about it felt almost dirty, like I was some Olive Garden carpetbagger looking to make-off with whatever riches I could before Reconstruction ended. At my rehearsal, the other members of my group were forced to watch me shove down penne with a grimace on my face. I just needed energy to fight my cold. I cared not what form it took, although at that moment I would have preferred anything but carbs. No one asked how it was when I finished. We all knew, and more importantly, knew it didn’t matter. The server had been kind/naive enough to give me four to-go breadsticks, on top of the two I had wrapped in napkins and shoved in the bag in tribute to the dining habits of my late grandmother. I tried to pawn them off. None would break breadstick with me.
Day 4
September 25, 2014
Lunch: 690 Calories
⅓ Bowl of Whole Wheat Linguini w/ Marinara
2 Meatballs
1 Bowl of Minestrone
2 Breadsticks
2 Club Sodas
It’s around this time in my journey where the truth of the experience becomes little more than a DayQuil-sustained blur. What pasta or soup did I eat? I barely know, but it went into my ungrateful body. Nothing was terrible, but all things must come in moderation, and yet this is the Neverending Pasta Bowl. I guess “all things” includes “finiteness.”
Not once during the week did I actually get a second bowl of pasta for my own personal consumption. The body has limits. This meal was the closest I came all week to throwing up. It was also the first meal during which I farted at the table.
I got an extra order of pasta to go after I was finished and went off in search of someone to help. I found perhaps the most interesting individual yet in the 23rd St N/R station. He wore dirty surplus fatigues and lay down on his many old bags. He was reading from what appeared to be a college mathematics textbook, like a real-life Will Hunting only fighting against even greater odds. I lifted the bag in front of him, asking if he needed something warm to eat. “Me? Ummm… no, Man. I’m good.” This man was not homeless. That’s just what he does. Thirty minutes later I left the food next to a woman who was asleep on the train in a pile of Duane Reade bags.
Dinner: 1,582 Calories
1 Bowl of Cavatappi w/ Five Cheese Marinara
and Chicken Fritta1 Bowl of Zuppa Toscana
1 ¾ Breadsticks
⅔ Coca-Cola
“I am a baked potato. I am a summer squash. …I am an inanimate object who from time to time can run very quickly, but I am not really alive.” — Christopher Durang
If I died at this Olive Garden, would anyone notice? Of course. Don’t be ridiculous. A server would scream. Paramedics would be called, patrons with medical training summoned, appropriate resuscitation measures attempted. My body would be rolled out through the collective hush. In that moment, I would be afforded all appropriate respect. But my booth would be filled within the hour and customers who bore witness to the tragedy would probably be given a gift certificate. That would be my legacy, to return to the meals from which I rose and feed the generations that follow. Scripture tells us so.
Day 5
September 26, 2014
Lunch: 1,272 Calories
⅔ Bowl of Penne w/ Alfredo
1 Chicken Frita
½ Bowl of Salad
1 Breadstick
2 Club Sodas
Dear Diary,
Today, I soared above the confines of my sorta-beloved 22nd Street Olive Garden in search of something more. I found it in the land only whispered of by elders and sung by poets. Today, I met the king.
There is a second Olive Garden in Manhattan, but I severely warn against you going there. It’s located in the worst neighborhood in New York City, a place I’m fearful to walk about in the daylight, let alone after dark. It is filled with those God forgot and those He remembers all too well. Hell is not just “other people,” it’s other people looking up. This second Olive Garden is located in the heart of Times Square.
To get to the dining area, you ascend two escalators, past potted plants and bars. A host greets you at the top and whisks you to a corner of what could, at any other restaurant, be four separate dining rooms. This Olive Garden must hold at least 700 people and on weekend nights there’s a wait. In this meal I finally went up against my most dreaded foe: plain Alfredo sauce.
I remembered getting the Chicken Alfredo when I was younger. It was food for days, a few noodles and a chicken breast completely encased in thick white pasta frosting. 13-year-old me loved it, and let’s be honest, 13-year-old me was never wrong about anything, be it the merits of Marxism or the movie Vertical Limit.
I entered battle bravely, but that made little difference. A piece of me was washed away in that deluge of hot, flavorless cream. When I had finished, a gentleman approached me and handed me his business card. Graduate, Culinary Institute of Tuscany. I have spent six weeks in Tuscany, sir, and I believe you, and I have known very different sides of it.
He was the manager, and thanked me cordially for my patronage. This man understood, though, that actions speak louder than words, and followed that up by really thanking me with a fistful of Andes mints. Maybe I’m setting my price a little low, but that’s how you grease a critic. A+ on the Alfredo sauce! For real though — he was great. I don’t want to get anyone fired.
Dinner: 1,123 Calories
¾ Bowl of Angel Hair w/ Marinara
2 Meatballs
1 Bowl of Zuppa Toscana
2 Breadsticks
2 Club Sodas
From this point, I was in pure survival mode. I’d already hit the wall multiple times, but by now it felt like I’d been sealed up behind one with nothing more than a cask of spicy three-meat sauce. Through trial and error, I’d arrived at the pasta combination least offense to my mouth and stomach: angel hair, marinara, and meatballs. Though all of the pastas are bland due to Olive Garden not using salt in the cooking process, the thinness of the strands creates gaps where the mineral content of the water comes forward and substitutes for taste. Marinara is exactly what you expect, with occasionally some rather hearty chunks of stewed tomatoes. The meatballs are just like Grandma used to make, if your grandma is Subway. I’m thankful for having made this discovery. Even still, from Thursday on, I was eating about three to five forkfuls of the pasta itself before having to push it away.
My friends Nick and Rachel came along this time. They ordered from the Cucina Mia menu, which is similar to Never Ending Pasta Bowl but a half-step up in quality of ingredients. They didn’t seem to note the difference. Nick said it wasn’t so much that the pasta was bad, just that he felt entirely capable of making it himself, which was a very common sentiment among others who joined me. The biggest takeaway for both guests, however, was my physical appearance. The word “zombie” was thrown around. Even the waiter, who had served me before, said it didn’t seem like I enjoyed pasta. This was a wise man.
On the upside, this was the first time I was able to take full advantage of the Pasta Pass by offering free soda to the entire table. I felt like such a big man.
Day 6
September 27, 2014
Lunch: 648 Calories
1/2 Bowl of Angel Hair w/ Marinara
1 ¾ Meatballs
½ Bowl of Minestrone
1 Breadstick
2 Club Sodas
One of the waiters called on another to help him adjust his earrings. I ate pasta.
Dinner: 1,123 Calories
⅓ Bowl of Whole Wheat Linguini
w/ Spicy Three Meatand Shrimp Fritta
⅖ Bowl of Salad
2 Breadsticks
2 Club Sodas
Once again, I brought along several friends (Spencer, Emma, & Henry) to the meal, partly for emotional support, but largely to make sure that I didn’t pass out and drown in my soup. Spencer and Emma explored the Cucina Mia menu, while Henry went with tried-and-true Chicken Parmesan.
His criticism of the Chicken Parm could only go so far, as he felt it was a dish that ultimately can only be fucked up to a point. But Emma had it when she suggested it was as if the dish had been made entirely out of ingredients bought at a gas station. Nailed it.
Day 7
September 28, 2014
Lunch: 1,123 Calories
⅓ Bowl of Fettucine w/ Five Cheese Marinara
1 Italian Sausage
1 Bowl of Pasta e Fagioli
1 Breadstick
2 Sprites
I entered day seven with the exhausted optimism of a sailor who has been at sea for months on a boat made of spaghetti. At the outset, I’d told myself I would binge for as long as I could, but that I must go for at least one week. By day three I realized I’d only be bingeing for one week.
The finish line of sorts was in sight, and all I had to do was not veer wildly off-course, steal the starter’s pistol, and shoot myself in the head with it. My former roommate Bowen and I journeyed once again to Times Square. His thoughts were much the same as the rest. “Yeah. It is, in fact, pasta.”
Up until now I have avoided talking about my bowels, but there is a time to discuss all. For the most part, my GI tract kept it together, with some irregularity towards the end. Halfway through this meal, though, I excused myself and did not return for eight minutes. All of it, whatever it was, came out of me. It was the movement those toilets were designed to handle. It smelled like pasta. I took a picture, but that’s one just for me and the several people who asked to see it later that night when I was drunk at a bar. Believe it or not, no one made out with me.
Dinner: 1,123 Calories
1/2 Bowl of Angel Hair w/ Marinara and Chicken Fritta
½ Bowl of Chicken and Gnocchi
1 Breadstick
2 Club Sodas
Fittingly, my last meal of the week circled back to where this whole thing began, with my ex-girlfriend Anna, the one who’d told me about the Pasta Pass in the first place.
She sat across and took pictures as completed my task with a plate of angel hair, marinara, and chicken fritta, with Chicken and Gnocchi soup, the one complimentary offering I’d yet to try, for a starter. Chicken and Gnocchi is just Alfredo sauce that’s pregnant with a potato. Anna was originally supposed to have a Pasta Pass as well, but a website malfunction invalidated her order. At this moment, she seemed to have no objection.
I picked at each dish, not eating much. I’d already gained enough weight for the week. Only, it turns out, I hadn’t. The next day I returned to “doctor” and found out that not only had I lost two pounds, but my cholesterol and virtually every other measure blood measure of health had improved. Go figure. At this point, though, the only consolation I had was that of a job done.
Seven days and thousands of empty calories later, what did it all mean? I knew going in that I’d probably get sick of the food, perhaps physically sick as well. I did both. I expected to gain weight, though perhaps the only reason I didn’t was because of the built-in portion control that comes from not wanting to eat anymore Olive Garden. I experienced extreme mood swings, though that’s pretty much my standard day-to-day.
When I was in high school, my family and I went to Bermuda for five days. We had dinner at the hotel’s top of line restaurant every night. Pretty much the only item on the menu that interested me was the steak, which I had three nights in a row. It was spectacular, but on the fourth night I could not bring myself to order the steak and did not eat steak again for at least six months.
Overindulgence breeds resentment and frustration in any context, especially in the absence of choice. But I guess it’s understandable why people would want to live the Pasta pass dream for seven weeks, though it’s also clear why for me it had turned into a nightmare in less than one.
This is the first in a series of pasta-filled diaries. The feast continues next week.
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