No one ever plans to work at Applebee’s. It’s just not a thing one sets out to do. As a child I dreamt of being a great scientist. I knew well enough that time travel didn’t exist but that I’d perhaps be the one to invent it. Or maybe I’d be a professional wrestler, you know, the main event type that headlines Wrestlemania and vanquishes the evil heel to cheers of the thousands in attendance and the millions watching at home.
Clearly I was delusional as a child.
Applebee’s is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.
I spent three years of my life working at America’s Neighborhood Bar and Grill. Three years slinging sugary drinks and no doubt setting hundreds of customers on a path towards type 2 diabetes. Three years dreading 10 PM, the “witching hour”, when all appetizers were half off and the restaurant would turn into Edison, New Jersey’s iteration of the Mos Eisley Cantina. A most wretched hive of scum and villainy would be and understatement.
Whenever I’m asked about my background as a socialist and what it was that led me to this corner of the political spectrum I simply mention that I worked at Applebee’s. Nods of sympathy and understanding ensue. One does not need to read Marx’s Capital. Applebee’s will leave the marks of capital all over one’s body.
If I haven’t made the fact obvious enough I’ll just come out and say it: I don’t miss working at Applebee’s. Not one bit.
That didn’t stop me from having lunch there this past Saturday.
My girlfriend/enabler (when it comes this semi-parmed life that I’m living, anyway), Mina, reminded me that Applebee’s had Chicken Parm on the menu. It was time to make my return.
“Dollaritas” are a thing that have entered the American lexicon, apparently. While I’m not sure that says anything good about our society, I’ve never been known to turn down the prospect of one dollar margarita. I sucked down two of them in rapid succession as I figured I’d need to be both well lubricated and slightly intoxicated to face what was about to set down in front of me.
There it is. The 1560 calorie monstrosity in all of its decadent splendor. I could feel the acid reflux kicking in and I hadn’t even taken a bite! Maybe I’d need another drink before I could subject myself to this. Mina pushed what remained of her “Mango-Berry Rita” to my side of the table. Ok. Now I was ready.
It wasn’t disgusting.
Look, I’m not about to award Applebee’s the Michelin Star or anything like that. There’s barely any sauce on this thing, the fettuccine is microwaved, the chicken is a touch too thick for my liking, and it would be a cold day in hell before I could expect to have some pecorino romano to sprinkle on top of this thing.
But it was edible enough.
I couldn’t finish it. Long gone are the days of my being able to consume nearly an entire day’s worth of calories in one sitting. That just isn’t me anymore.
Applebee’s isn’t me anymore.
I think we’re served well to remind ourselves of these these sorts of things. Some may look back at their shitty jobs of old with a degree of sentimentality but not me. It was a job, I worked there, and I’ve since moved on.
And that’s how I view this particular chicken parm.
It was a meal, I ate it, and now I’m moving on.
The following day was Mother’s Day. My family went out to eat at a “Fine Diner”.
Guess what was on the menu?
Semi-Parmed Life 