I think it's soo funny that I've been on here constantly for months telling you this is what's going to happen for the bucs and have been doing it for years but you've even responded by telling me no. Every year I've been right too.
The process of going out to eat seems broken to me. Why is it that the more expensive a place is, the crappier the food is? For example, there's a 50s restaurant close to my house called Nifty Fifties. For like $10, you can get the best meal ever. Meanwhile, you can drop $100 at Chez Pierre and walk out hungry for some McDonald's or Subway.
The second thing that annoys me is something I covered a few weeks ago. I hate pretentious restaurants that spell stuff out in another language, or give a food a name (i.e. "Chicken Anna Maria" or "Chicken Isabella.") You don't go into McDonald's and order a fricking "Hamburger Samuel" or "Cheeseburger Billy Mays." (Though the "Cheeseburger Billy Mays" would be cool to eat.)
My family and relatives went out to eat Friday night for my sister's birthday. The restaurant we went to wasn't a chain, so I won't give you its name. However, the first appetizer they listed was something called "Bruschetta."
Now, the last time we all went out to eat, I ordered something that sounded like "Bruschetta," and it turned out to be mozzarella sticks. I asked my cousins if Bruschetta was mozzarella sticks, and they laughed at me. One of my cousins told me to read the description:
"Tostini with chopped fresh tomatoes, garlic, basil and olive oil."
I was still confused. What the hell is Tostini? Is a Tostini a mozzarella stick? Why can't they just tell us what this means instead of listing random words in some cryptic language that less than 1 percent of America speaks? At this point, I'm encouraged to just start walking around and saying nonsensical words to random people. The artsy-fartsy new-age hippies downtown would probably think I'm some sophisticated genius.
At any rate, my cousins actually ordered the Bruschettas. I anxiously waited to see what these Bruschettas were. I waited. And waited. And waited... It was seriously 30 minutes until we got our food. Eventually the Bruschettas arrived. I looked down and saw small pieces of toast with sliced tomatoes on top.
Are you f***ing kidding me? Why didn't the menu just say, "Bruschetta - Small pieces of toast with sliced tomatoes on top?" Why do these a**holes have to make things so difficult? No one knows what a Tostini is. No one!
Anyway, my cousins enjoyed their Bruschettas while I just sat there. There were five of us and exactly five Bruschettas, but I refused to eat the one left over for me because it wasn't a mozzarella stick. I wanted a freaking mozzarella stick, so what am I going to do with a Tostini and sliced tomatoes? This is the equivalent of going out on a blind date with a girl whom your friend described as "super hot." Instead, she has one eye, a huge mole on her face, a beard, and the body of Homer Simpson. Are you going to sleep with her unless you get really hammered? I think not.
Now, I'm very particular regarding what I order, in case you couldn't guess. Most of the stuff on the menu completely lost me. For example, my sister ordered something called a "Fruity Tomorrow," which ended up being clams and baby squid. At least I had fun chastising her for eating baby animals.
My cousin and I decided that ordering a Stromboli would be a good idea. However, we were both concerned that it would be too big (will explain later). We asked our waiter (I'll get to him soon) how big a small Stromboli was. He showed us that it wasn't too enormous and said that we could each handle one.
However, when our Strombolis finally arrived, that wasn't the case at all. They were like twice the size of a football. That a**hole lied to us. Unbelievable. Both my cousin and I shook our heads and began eating.
I was halfway through when I got full. Because I'm a man and I don't like to take stuff home, I chugged down some Pepsi and continued eating.
When I was two-thirds of the way finished, I felt like I was going to gag. But I manned up and continued.
At about the three-quarters mark, I nearly collapsed. I was done. I hung my head in shame. When the waiter came over and asked me if I wanted it wrapped, I didn't even have the strength to say no. He took it away and brought it back in a box. My manliness was gone.
JERK OF THE WEEK NO. 2: Gay Portuguese Waiter
Let me preface this by saying that I have no problem with gay Portuguese waiters in general. You can be gay, you can be Portuguese, and you can be a waiter, and that's fine by me. I don't care.
I did, however, have issues with the gay Portuguese waiter who serviced us at my sister's birthday dinner. Yep, the one who lied to us about the size of the Strombolis. Maybe he was imagining the size of his partner's shlong when he told us the Strombolis were small. Oh snap! No I didn't!
It was more than just this Stromboli incident, however. Just ordering the Stromboli was difficult enough. There were about 14 people at our dinner party: five men and nine women. The gay Portuguese waiter asked my sister and two female cousins what they wanted first. When it was my turn, he skipped over me and went straight to some old woman sitting next to me. I didn't even know who she was!
This wasn't the first time I was ignored all night. The gay Portuguese waiter asked everyone what they wanted to drink - everyone except for me. I had to yell, "I'd like a Pepsi!" when he was walking away.
Later, when he was taking orders for appetizers, I didn't even have the chance to ask if the Bruschettas were mozzarella sticks. My sister and cousins said they wanted the Bruschettas, and he just walked toward the other side of the table and ignored me. I don't know if he was ignoring me because he knew I'm straight, or was trying to play "hard to get" with me, but at that point I didn't care. Figuring out the thought process of women is hard enough; guessing what gay Portuguese waiters are thinking is damn near impossible.
So anyway, back to where I was before, he went around the whole table, skipping all of the men. When he finished with all of the women, he asked my male cousin what he wanted. Saving the best for last, eh? Well, not so fast. My aunt returned from the bathroom, so he interrupted my male cousin and went to get her order. I figured a gay Portuguese waiter would attend to the men first, but that just goes to show how little I know about gay Portuguese waiters.
And then there was the Stromboli incident where he incorrectly told my cousin and me the size of the Strombolis.
But believe it or not, there was actually another Stromboli incident. When I ordered mine, I told the gay Portuguese waiter that I didn't want peppers, onions or mushrooms on it - just the cheese, salami, pepperoni and sausages. I'm a man!
When I asked him to exclude the peppers, onions and mushrooms, the gay Portuguese waiter chuckled. He must of thought, "Typical ignorant White American male. So uncultured."
Look pal, I'm a heterosexual, white American male, and I hate peppers, onions and mushrooms! If I were a gay Portuguese man (not that there's anything wrong with that), maybe I'd like peppers, onions and mushrooms on my Italian Stromboli! But I am a dumb American man who hates vegetables! Deal with it!
JERK OF THE WEEK NO. 3: Olive Garden
Let me stop talking about one restaurant I can't name, and begin with another crappy restaurant I can discuss because it happens to be a chain.
There are plenty of things to hate about the Olive Garden... the crappy food, the terrible ambiance, the people who go there... But nothing - and I mean nothing is worse than the Olive Garden commercials.
I seriously want to electrocute myself with jumper cables whenever I see these commercials. They're all the same. A group of douche bags has dinner there, and there is always one a**hole Oliver Garden snob who is pretentious enough that he knows the entire menu. Oh, and don't forget the snazzy music in the background. Here's an example:
Douche Bag: I've done the math, and there are 42 pasta and sauce combinations on the menu.
Smart Alec: You do the math, I'll do the eating.
Rest of Group: Hwa hwa hwa hwa hwa hwa hwa!!!
Here's another to really emphasize my point:
Douche Bag: I have everything on this menu memorized!
Hot Waitress: Did you see our new Pasta of the Day menu?
Douche Bag: Hmm... Umm... let me see that.
Rest of Group: Hwa hwa hwa hwa hwa hwa hwa!!!
Now where are those jumper cables?
Who acts like this? Who gets excited about going to Olive Garden? Olive Garden is the crappiest restaurant on the planet, and it's not even close. Here's a real-life reenactment of a dinner party at Olive Garden.
Douche Bag: I have everything on this menu memorized! Random Guy: That's because you're too poor to eat at a better restaurant. Douche Bag: I've done the math, and there are 42 pasta and sauce combinations on the menu! Fat Ugly Waitress with Big Mole: Actually, it's only 17 combinations because a lot of our sauces are the same. Random Woman: Excuse me, waitress. There is a pube in my salad. Can I have another salad instead? Fat Ugly Waitress with Big Mole: No, it's written on the menu that we are not responsible for any pubes that may or may not appear in your food. Random Guy: It's all right, I already found 10 pubes in my food. Just pick it up with your used spoon and just drop it on the floor. Rest of Group: Hwa hwa hwa hwa hwa hwa hwa!!! Random Guy: Why are you laughing? I didn't even say anything funny. Random Woman: Look, we lead miserable lives and we have to eat at this crappy restaurant every week. This laughter is just hiding the fact that we are crying inside because our souls die just a bit every time we step into this God-forsaken restaurant. So, just laugh with us please. Random Guy: Oh, OK. Hwa hwa hwa hwa hwa hwa hwa!!!
This just in - Olive Garden will never be advertising on this Web site. But I'm fine with that. Let them spend their pube money elsewhere.