Despite the fresh loss, only a few hours old, to the visiting Clippers, the mood in the Olive Garden was exuberant.
“This was a great suggestion, Gigi. God damn, I love these frickin’ breadsticks!” shouted Jared Sullinger through mouthfuls of half-chewed bread. He held up two of the free item and waved them excitedly. “I love Italy!”
Gigi sighed. “I’m glad you like Italy, but actually, it was not my idea to come to this place. I believe it was yours, Jared.”
Jared did not seem to care about his teammate’s explanation. Instead, he pointed at the lone breadstick which sat on the plate in front of Gigi. “Hey, you gonna eat that? My basket ran out and I haven’t seen our waitress for like five minutes.”
Picking up the pre-formed rod of bread, Gigi took a tentative sniff. “They do not have these things you call ‘bread-sticks’ in my homeland. I am wondering whether this Olive Garden place is truly as authentic as you all claim.” He stuck his tongue out and tried a small taste. “Hmm. Not offensive, but has a very artificial taste about it.”
“So you don’t want it?” Jared asked, grabbing it out of Gigi’s hand without waiting for answer.
“I suppose not,” Gigi answered, shrugging. He then turned to another teammate. “And Marcus, would you stop pretending to be an opera singer? You are not only embarrassing me, but the rich culture of Italy.”
Marcus did not hear, and continued to sing garbage syllables in exaggerated lows and ear-piecing falsettos, waving his arms to and fro as the rest of the assembled Celtics laughed and hollered.
The waitress came back and placed a plate of food in front of Gigi, who looked at it with surprise. “I didn’t order this. I was just going to have some nice wine with you guys and then make something simple at home for my dinner.”
“Dude, you can’t go to the OG and not get the Fried Fettuccine Alfredo Bites!” Jared yelled. “They’re sooooo good and really authentic! I eat four orders every time I’m here.”
Gigi poked the greasy morsels with his fork. “I have heard that Americans are infatuated with an Italian dish they call ‘fettuccine alfredo’, but it surprises me, since we have no such dish in Italy. I assume these are a variation on that.”
Jared, unable to stand Gigi’s hesitation, snagged the plate from under his beard. “If you’re going to get all analytical about it, I’ll just eat them myself. Mama mia!” Soon, Jared was bent over his food, making all manner of animal-like noises. Looking around, Gigi saw that his other teammates were either consuming food in a similar manner to Jared, or were drunkenly making breadstick towers and knocking them down with olives from the salad bowl.
Knowing that he wouldn’t be missed, Gigi quietly got up from the table and went out into the parking lot. The garish green sign of the Olive Garden bathed the area in an almost radioactive glow. “Gli americani sono così stupidi,” he said under his breath, beginning the long, lonely walk to his apartment.