Then we ordered, and that’s when the waitress lost a few more points. (Mistake #4) Ya, we get it, when we order an extra large pepperoni pizza, a veal chop with pasta, chicken parmesan with spaghetti, a caeser salad, fettuccini alfredo and a sausage pizza we seem large, but stop judging us bitch, cause we would also like a side order of double fried French fries and some more bread. Also, we are running low on olive oil, so spruce that up too.
Then she laughed. BIG MISTAKE. Don’t laugh at our family, it is almost guaranteed that we will either make you incredibly uncomfortable or try to eat you. Both are a possibility, both have happened.
So we sat in our booth baking for about 15-20 minutes when they started bringing out the smorgasbord. The pizza was giant, and smells delicious and overall everything looked great. So I dug in to my caeser salad and was not impressed. I am a firm believer that Caeser dressing shouldn’t be super creamy, especially if its homemade, and this one definitely didn’t seem homemade. The fettuccine alfredo with peas and vegetables was just with peas, and a little too thick for me. Also, I was sitting across from my sister who would take a bite and let the sauce get stuck on her mouth like a glob of mayo, so we know that it repulsed me. My other sisters chicken parmesan was okay, but I prefer the Lean Cuisine version—and it’s about 12$ cheaper. The star of the show was the ‘za, it was delicious and the perfect amount of crust/grease/cheese. You could even pull the layers apart and eat a thing layer of pizza and then a thin layer of bread and since I heart carbs, this was perfect. The sausage pizza sucked and tasted like an onion farm mated with old sausage. Just bad. My dad’s veal was awesome and it came with a huge arugula and parmesan salad. By the time we got up a few nasties were sweating so bad that we had to run out of the restaurant as to avoid embarrassment. Ya, as if we could avoid embarrassment after ordering 50 entrees and cleaning the plates.
Mistake #5 (and in my dad’s case, a fatal one) was the fact that they forgot our French fries. Only a true Fatty McButterpants would mention this after gnawing the last bits of veal directly off the bone (I guess I am my father’s daughter). The sad part was, the tone of voice that he used when mentioning it to our waitress was forgiving—like he really was “too full” to eat one more bite, but the small tear (or sweat) drop proved that he was disappointed with the no-show of our double fried French fries.