The Last Zuppa
What Olive Garden’s Pasta Pass taught me about myself, my stomach, and psycho-digestive phenomena.
By Billy Domineau
Illustrations by Celeste Byers
The term “Never Ending Pasta Bowl” is a misnomer. Olive Garden closes every day, thereby ending the meal of anyone still eating their pasta. The bowl itself has a bottom—and it is not necessarily a singular bowl, as additional servings are brought out in their own new dishes. A more accurate title would be the “Indefinitely Extendable Within The Time Between Now And Closing Pasta Meal Served In One To A Similarly Indefinite Number Of Bowls.” Obviously, I am not a marketer. Semantics aside, the point of the promotion is clearly that a diner should feel free to try multiple servings within one sitting.
Over the course of seven weeks, I consumed the following:
35,000 Calories Consumed
1485 Minutes Sitting in Booths and at Bars
$570 Worth of Meals
47.33 Breadsticks
13 Homeless People Fed
4 Stray Pieces of Pasta Found In Bowls That Were Full of Different Pasta
3 Waiters Who Expressed Concern for My Health/Well-being
? Regrets
In all of my Pasta Pass meals, I never ate a second bowl of pasta in a given sitting. I had never wanted to eat a second one. But this left me feeling like I’d never truly made use of my entitlement, nor fully faced the beast head on. So, on the final day of the Pasta Pass, I sat down at a booth determined to eat, or at least sample, six bowls of pasta that in full would incorporate every eligible Pasta Bowl component. It was the only proper goodbye. As I ate each, I reflected on the lessons—some big, some small—that I learned while dining at Olive Garden.
Lesson One:
A Good Server Is Half-Best Friend, Half-National Security Adviser
My server Malikka nailed it from the get go. I informed her of my six-dish intentions, and she insisted on taking the whole order all at once to ensure proper timing. This was a woman of action. As we negotiated proper spacing between dishes, she asked if I intended to finish them all. There was a brief silence before Malikka took the reigns and made the decision for me, ruling that it was best to just plow through, finished or unfinished. She was protecting me from my darkest aspirations, while at the same time encouraging and facilitating a dumb-ass plan with gusto and encouragement. A great waiter provides a safe space for culinary exploration while alerting you to the high-voltage wires that encircle it. Maybe this same logic explains the strong appeal of restaurants like Olive Garden, especially in less-than-stellar economies. For many, a night out is a small luxury. A Never Ending Pasta Bowl provides people with options while not throwing guests any surprises that might unexpectedly mar the meal. Chain dining is about consistency—and that has real value.
Lesson Two:
Olive Garden (and by extension Starboard Value) Likely Got Its Money’s Worth
I dined with my roommate, Nicole, who had also purchased a Pasta Pass. Her experience was more limited than mine, due to a three-week delay in its delivery and her sensible discretion. She used the pass about eight times, just enough to get past the break-even point. She had no complaints; the food was as she expected it to be. Ultimately, she slightly regretted her purchase, not deeming the experience to be worth the time required out of her schedule to travel to the nearest Olive Garden from work several times a week. Eating at Olive Garden was my job, so time was easier to find.
This was likely the case for most other Pasta Pass holders. Though Olive Garden has yet to release any final numbers for the promotion, one waiter at the NYC 6th Avenue location told me that their restaurant had been the home base for more pass holders, approximately fifteen, than any other locations in the company. By week four, I was the last breadstick standing. Assuming those ratios hold nationwide, losses from the one-percent eaters like myself will likely be canceled out by the ninety-nine percent who spent the last seven weeks living productive lives. Heavy users on their own still may have turned a profit for Olive Garden, as the substantial publicity generated by their stories could drive eaters to the restaurant, right at the time when Starboard’s new leadership team begin rolling out their new vision.
Lesson Three:
Pasta + Me = Startling Psycho-Digestive Phenomena
I’ve paid almost zero attention to the Facebook comments left on previous articles in this series. For personal sanity and safety, I assume that every comment, good or ill, is a bridge, in that it has a troll hiding just underneath it. I did, however, note the consistent remark that any negative experiences I had were the result of A) gluttonous portions and B) my general dislike of pasta, so let’s be clear on those.
Until this final meal, I had never ordered a second portion of pasta in a sitting. For a promotion called the Never Ending Pasta Bowl, that’s portion control. Eating so many meals at Olive Garden is extreme, but it doesn’t mean I couldn’t have enjoyed the experience. Alan Martin of Burlington, NC ate 115 meals at Olive Garden over forty-nine days with his Pasta Pass, and unlike me, he willingly embraced the free soda. In interviews he has been nothing short of effusive about his experience, calling every meal he ate “perfect.” Quantity alone did not this monster make (to be clear, I’m the monster; Alan Martin, the saint). As for my larger feelings on pasta, “dislike” was an unfair generalization on my part. Noodles can do wonderful things — ever had Black Linguini? Squid ink is a miracle condiment. I think I just need a bigger kick out of pasta dishes than most to be impressed.
This was the point in the meal though, when I did realize a possible pasta prejudice of mine: I have a large stomach. Though I’d eaten a fair amount already, I had no reason to believe I wouldn’t be able to easily sample all six bowls. From this point on, I had very real trouble holding my fork. Conversation with Nicole became a series of murmurs and moans. More than one small serving of pasta in a day shuts down my body—I watched it happen in real time as my equilibrium shifted, and my depth perception went out the window. Pasta beyond a point turns me into a large gelatinous buoy that barely bobs afloat at table level.
Lesson Four:
Everything Is Fine Because It Could Be So Much Worse
Of the six plates of the day, this was my least favorite. Bland and sloppy. But I know that regardless of whether or not the dish is just not my personal favorite or subjectively bad, there are plenty who would see it as one of the best meals of their lives. Throughout the weeks I continued ordering extra to-go bags when I could and finding homeless people to give them to. Some reacted with real joy at the idea of a hot meal, others barely responded, or didn’t say thank you, probably because unimaginably shitty circumstances were the norm for so long. For seven weeks, I had a piece of plastic in my wallet that ensured I could be indoors for twelve hours a day and have as much food as I wanted. For all the “pain” I have endured, these interactions have planted a very real seed of recognition in my mind about the immense privilege and security I usually take for granted. Hopefully it continues to germinate.”
Lesson Five:
525,600 Mouthfuls – Measure in Food
Chicken Fettuccine Alfredo was my jam for so many years. Now, in the moment, putting it in my mouth makes my body respond as if I were being fed my own insides. Maybe this is a good thing, though—not because over-fried chicken and limp pasta wearing a creamy spa mask is bad, but just because it means I’m a different person that I was ten years ago.
I’ve started to love vinegar in the past year. My hairline has also started to severely recede in that time, but I’ll focus on the vinegar as being a sign that I’m seeking new adventures. I’ll choose to see my evolving preference for Marinara over Alfredo and bare scalp over flowing blond locks as mile marker of life progress.
Lesson Six:
You Must Never-End The Pasta Bowl Before It Never-Ends You
I have quit or said “that’s good enough” so many times in my life. By weight, my computer is mostly unfinished sitcom pilots. I was supposed to find a good Pilates studio as soon as I moved to New York five years ago. One bite was all I needed to close up shop and find a bus to go pass out on. Something stirred within me though. Angel Hair, marinara, and meatballs had been too good to me in my darkest moments to just cast it aside as if it were any other obligatory dish. This was not Penne. This was a friend, true as I have ever known.
From the first day of Pasta Pass, I had a vision of how it would end. On the last day, at the end of my last meal, I would finally order dessert. Growing up, I would close out every Olive Garden meal exactly the same way, with a slice of their Black Tie Chocolate Mousse Cake. Rich. Decadent. Paid for by parents. I haven’t had a slice of it in nine years. On Day One I told myself, “It doesn’t matter how full you are, how much you could do without it. You need to eat that cake.” This was the moment. This was supposed to be my true victory.
…I did not order a slice of Black Tie Chocolate Mousse. I felt so fucking sick and needed to be able to drink at a friend’s birthday in four hours. Sorry, Childhood Dreams. You lost to Scotch again.
At this moment I do not say “Goodbye” to Olive Garden, though I certainly do wish it well in the coming weeks and months when we will almost certainly spend time seeing other people in hopes of understanding ourselves better. It taught me much about myself, my relationship to food, and my ability to not want it. But I will be back soon. Zuppa Toscana will always call. The breadsticks will always be oddly obligatory. And if you fine people ever find yourselves missing me, just cup your ear to a gentle breeze, and you’ll be sure to hear the wind carrying my whispers of “Yes, thank you, I would like cheese on my soup.”
This is the last installment of the Pasta Pass diaries. Read more below:
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