Buckle up your seat belts, bitches, because the entitlement is real strong in this recent Facebook post on the Olive Garden Facebook page. Before I get to that, let me fill you in on my last couple of weeks: I got an infection, I was in the hospital for a couple of days and now I’m on antibiotics for six weeks which means I am not allowed to drink (much) alcohol. I honestly fear for the financial stability of my neighborhood liquor store. I have not been up to writing for a while, but Anna’s post reignited the bitchiness deep in my soul. Like the infection that has been brewing in my prostate for the last few weeks (TMI?), it is ready to make itself known. And now to the bitching:

Anna went to Olive Garden last week and wanted some “pomadoro” sauce to go with her breadsticks, salad and entitled attitude. Upon learning that it wasn’t on the menu, she did what any self-centered, egocentric, head up her own ass customer would do and asked the waitress to have the kitchen make it for her. Because, you know, if you don’t see what you want on a restaurant menu, it’s perfectly acceptable to ask the kitchen to just whip it up for you. Anna says the waitress was puzzled by her request. I want to give that waitress a high five, a pat on the back, and a glass of house white for making the customer think she was puzzled when we all know the waitress was really just using her “puzzled” expression instead of her “bitch, get the fuck out of here” expression. When the manager was called to the table, he told Anna they don’t have the ingredients to make that particular sauce, which is code for “it’s not on the menu, kindly go fuck yourself with some angel hair pasta.”

Anna, not one to give up on her quest for pomodoro sauce, then went to the Olive Garden Facebook page and wrote out the recipe for her desired sauce. All together now:



So many things need to be said about this. First off, even if the restaurant had “theses” ingredients for the sauce, that doesn’t mean they are going to make it. The menu isn’t there so you can actively ignore it. It’s there to let you know what you can and cannot have at this restaurant. If you don’t see any pomodoro fucking sauce with angel hair pasta on it, then you can’t have it.

Secondly, Anna seems surprised that they don’t have the ingredients. Girl, it’s Olive Garden. There isn’t an Italian Nonna back there in a hairnet and orthopedic shoes chopping up fresh basil, running pasta through a pasta maker and stirring sauces with big wooden spoons. The kitchen is stocked with cans of sauce, plastic bags of veggies, boxes of pasta and a bunch of men and women who don’t give a shit. I don’t think there is a vat of pomodoro sauce anywhere back there.

Thirdly, if you know this recipe so well, why don’t you drag your ass back to your own cucina and make it your own goddamn self? Posting the recipe on a Facebook page and expecting Olive Garden to make it for you makes you look like an entitled, spoiled idiot who thinks the world revolves around you. News flash, Anna: it doesn’t. If Olive Garden doesn’t have what you want, you find something else on the menu to order or you leave. And make it yourself.

I want to thank Anna for giving me the will to blog today. The last couple of weeks have been difficult for me, but my desire to roast clueless customers is strong again. Like my prostate, my bitchiness is enflamed, slightly enlarged and pulsating. Thanks, Anna!