The Never Ending Olive Garden Cheese Grater

Friends…

I love a good movie. Who doesn’t, right?

Tight scripts, groundbreaking cinematography, unforgettable actors bringing their characters to life for our amusement. What a time to be alive. We, as grown adults with all the responsibilities and obligations of this life, get to switch off our entire thinking apparatus and just play pretend for a couple hours.

I’m a pretty big fan of playing pretend. For example, I write these little stories and pretend I’m entertaining. If not for my highly developed pretending abilities, you all might be out there doing something truly productive instead of reading this, like curing cancer, or building a bird house, or running a for-hire cuddling business. (It’s like prostitution… but for lonely dudes who just need a cuddle.)

No judgment here, I put mayonnaise on my spaghetti. It’s delicious and I’ll fight anyone who disagrees with me in an open field. Preferably at sundown for dramatic effect.

But more importantly, I recently watched the film, “Good Luck, Have Fun, Don’t Die,” directed by Gore Verbinski. If you haven’t, do yourself a favor and give it a watch. Sam Rockwell really crushes it. The whole thing is wild as hell in a hilarious, unhinged kind of way. I won’t attempt to critique the film with any sort of expertise; I’m no movie critic. Just know that technology and artificial intelligence are essential elements of the movie.

So, why am I starting this post with a long-winded ramble about movies and questionable spaghetti toppings?

Because a couple of spots in the aforementioned movie where people are staring into their phone screens like zombies hit too close to home and reminded me of a very important moment that needs to be shared. A story about…

My mother-in-law.

I know, I know. Don’t poke the bear. A story about my in-law sounds a lot like some famous last words. Don’t worry, friends, my wife has given me permission to share this glorious moment with you. Also, my mother-in-law doesn’t speak English, except for:

“Hello!” and “Good job!” and “I like it!”

Now, as you may know, one of America’s crowning achievements, an indelible mark that our society will leave in the historical record for eons to come, is the epitome of authentic Italian cuisine known as: The Olive Garden. Even the name strikes deep into your soul. Olives. Gardens.

I can’t think of anything more irredeemably Italian than that.

Pasta, bread, cheese. The pitchers of fruity sangria concoction that I would double-fist with reckless abandon if my lovely wife would allow such festivities. You want some salad? Have a giant awkwardly shaped glass bowl of the shit. A gnocchi soup that could only have been created by a mutant-crossover combination of Gordon Ramsay and Emeril Lagasse? Absolutely.

(I will replicate this recipe at home if it’s the last thing I do, I swear it on my ancestors.)

The place is truly a paradise of carbs and debauchery.

But the best part? The cheese grater…

You know the moment.

The waiter brings you the food and then commences a ritual of the utmost importance. The sacred words passed down for generations. Blood has been spilled over these holiest of incantations. Their utterance cannot be denied.

“Say when.”

A well-adjusted person enjoys this moment for what it is. The friendly waiter grinding away happily as cheese piles up on a steaming pile of noodles. A socially aware individual might smile and nod, before eventually responding with something like, “That’s good, thanks!”

Not my mother-in-law. Not even close.

For some frame of reference here, it’s important to mention some things about my dearest in-law. She’s a wonderful woman, truly. She invites me into her home and family. She makes some verifiably kickass black beans. She’s hilarious and full of life. Despite what I’m about to say, she really is great.

But, Christ on a retarded donkey, that woman is addicted to her phone. She’s interacting with some form of social media almost perpetually. Last time we checked, her daily screen time was somewhere around 16 hours. Let that sink in for a moment. Two thirds of a complete solar revolution.

Every. Single. Day.

So, when it came time to enjoy a nice family outing at our local Olive Garden, my wife and I had a pretty good idea of what to expect. An obscene number of selfies, total disregard for normal dinner conversation expectations, and a general lack of situational awareness. What we did not expect, was our waiter to go postal with the cheese grating.

Picture it, Tyler, the 20-year-old Olive Garden waiter who sees this shit every day. He approaches our group with a tray of food. He expertly positions our entrées across the table like those creepy hot chocolate serving bastards from The Polar Express, minus the dancing, of course, Olive Garden has a strict no dancing policy for the staff. Tragic, I know.

Cheese for me? Well, sure!

Cheese for my wife? Just a little, please!

Cheese for my distracted mother-in-law?

Silence.

He looks at her eyes, glazed over as her fingers swipe and tap. An awkward silence ensues for a brief moment.

He looks at me. Our eyes lock. A silent understanding occurs. He knows it. I know it.

I nod.

He starts grinding. A frantic excitement overtakes him. His moment has come. Retribution for the social injustice he’s endured. A man possessed by the spirit of every overworked server in the history of mankind. His thirst for cheesy vengeance cannot be quenched. The queso must flow…

Moments that seem like an eternity pass. My wife shakes her head. The hilarity undeniable. I watch with glee as Tyler goes absolutely gangbusters on this unsuspecting plate of tortellini.

But then! Disaster!

Tyler’s resolve begins to falter. The mound of cheese is fast becoming insurmountable. His eyes plead with mine. Surely, she’ll tell him to stop.

More cheese.

Surely now.

More cheese.

Any second.

More cheese.

Sweet merciful God.

As panic begins to rise in the back of Tyler’s young mind, my dear mother-in-law looks up. Her snap back to reality is immediate. She lets out an “Ayy!” and finally releases Tyler from his cheese grating captivity.

His mission accomplished, I salute him and send him on his way. His tip will be excessive. Well done, sir.

But why did my wife and I allow this travesty of a cheese smothering to occur?

Well, mostly because we thought it was hilarious. But also, deep down inside, past the responsibility we might feel to correct or justify the behaviors of our friends and family, there’s a small piece of us that’s had enough. In fact, I think that sentiment is somewhere in most of us.

We’ve had enough of the vapid and depressing alternate reality of social media. We’ve had enough of all the dumb shit that spews out of the algorithmic hellhole of Instagram or TikTok. We want to live in the moment. We want to enjoy life, in the real world. Not plugged in, with our focus and attention being sucked ever deeper into that terrifying pit of despair and self-loathing inherent in these apps. We enjoy taking a picture as much as the next person, sure. But we keep those pictures to remember the parts of our lives that we cherish. We don’t plaster them as far and wide as we can across the internet. Definitely not a shitty selfie with a cringey filter, taken in a random Olive Garden. There’s a bald dude in the booth behind you blowing his nose for god’s sake.

My hope for you and everyone you know, is that you don’t go through life, staring into the electronic void while the cheese inundates something that could be a splendid meal. Don’t smile and nod, pretending everything is OK once you realize just how much fucking cheese you’ve allowed to pile up while you were distracted.

Because some of us are living life to the fullest, and we’re definitely laughing while your food gets ruined.

Thanks for reading.

I’m still a little surprised that people actually want to read these things, but I’m grateful for every subscriber, comment, and share.

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See you in the next one.

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