11/4, 7:15pm—Austin TX, Burnet Road

It’s been a whirlwind over here. Dog surgeries, dog recovery. Picking Kat up from the airport, taking her back to the airport. Refreshing FiveThirtyEight every ten minutes, pulling down on my phone screen to reload the latest tweets, clicking the states on the Senate map on 270toWin over and over, just to imagine what it might look like. Working on distressing stories. I have a book proposal due this month. I covered a film festival last week and barely remember it! There’s been a lot going on. I have been neglecting pasta.

Not today, though. Today I woke up, realized I had an extra hour because for some reason we’re still doing Daylight Savings Time, and made breakfast. I took the dog for one of our micro-walks—he’s allowed to go about five minutes at a time to make sure he doesn’t get fatigued or burst a stitch, so we walk in any direction until we hit a Beto O’Rourke yard sign—and came back inside. I already knew that, after football, I’d exercise my Pasta Pass for the first time this week.

On my way to the restaurant, I stopped by a pet store to pick up a protective bodysuit for Dio—basically a full-body stocking that he crams into like a little sausage, so he can’t lick at his stitches or otherwise impede the recovery that, so far, is going very well. On the way out, I decided to grab a treat for him—Rachael Ray branded turkey burger bites, using the time-honored dog treat tradition of “buying the dog the treat I’d be most willing to eat.” He still thin, though I’m not sure the extent to which he’s underweight right now—he’d put on a little more than half a pound after he was home for two days, but he’s been eating well and I’ve been feeding him more than usual—so I have been going overboard with the treats lately.

Also, of course, because I’m just glad he’s home, and that his biggest problems right now are that his walks are too short and he can’t be trusted to live his life with an exposed belly—I’ve been over-rewarding the guy for just about everything. “You got up when I walked into the room? Somebody deserves a treat!” “Look whose tail is wagging! Want a cookie?”

Nonetheless, I decided to leave him alone for a couple hours and go eat. It was a Sunday night at the Olive Garden, which meant that it was crowded, but the bar was mostly open. That was ideal—I brought a book I had no serious intention of reading, figuring I would probably find myself watching the Packers/Patriots game instead.

I sat in the bar for a while before anybody noticed I was there, which was fine—I was in no hurry, although I was a little bit hungry. The NFL pre-game show got weird, especially with the sound off, with pentagrams and numerology on the screen as they attempted to hype people up for the Brady/Rodgers showdown by, er, exploring what their jersey numbers mean?

But I decided to treat the Olive Garden bar like a living room, and after about 20 minutes, a server noticed that I had been sitting silently for a while and asked if I was waiting for a to-go order; I told her that I was there for dinner, and she promptly took my order. I started with an order of spaghetti with meatballs and marinara, the classic, with the potato soup. A different server, a guy whose name I didn’t catch, brought it all out to me promptly.

I took my time with it, eavesdropped on conversations a bit. My server was giving a coworker some shit while he rolled silverware. “How’s your night going, Steve-O?” “It’s Steven.” “Oh, you don’t like Steve-O?” “I prefer Steven.” “You got it, Steve-O.” It was like the inverse of the axiom that a person who is nice to you but rude to the waiter is not a nice person; a waiter who is nice to you but rude to his co-workers is probably not that nice, either.

He was nice to me, though, and he knew that I had a Pasta Pass, so probably assumed I was a poor tipper. The Pats scored on their first possession and he asked if I wanted a refill. I told him sure, got rigatoni with five-cheese marinara and crispy chicken—when you haven’t been using your endless pasta pass much, there’s no reason to do anything other than stick with the hits—and he brought it out, along with a few more breadsticks.

I glanced at my watch, saw that it was after 9 o’clock, and was shocked that I had been there for a lot longer than I expected—but then I realized that it was still the first quarter, and I’d just failed to set my watch back. Cool. It was nice to be out of the house, by myself, and not be worried about anything for a moment. I hadn’t decided when I placed the order if I’d be taking it to go or eating it there, but what the hell? It had been a while since I’d been and it looked and smelled good. The refill portions are small, so I went for it.

My waiter, whose name is not Steve-O, came back and asked if I wanted a third portion. I decided to push it, and told him I did—that I wanted cavatappi with sausage and meat sauce, and a to-go box. He gave a knowing nod, like he knew that there was usually a performative aspect to getting the final refill to-go, but that he was going to waive it for this visit.

I picked the meat sauce/Italian sausage combo because it’s the best value for a to-go refill. If you’re subscribed to this newsletter because you want Olive Garden Pasta Pass tips, here’s your reward: With most of the refills, you’re given a half-portion of sauce, pasta, and toppings, but if you order Italian sausage as your topping, you’re served the full two links, and the meat sauce is naturally more filling than the plain marinara. (The cavatappi is arbitrary, I just like the way it’s shaped.) A half-portion from Olive Garden is a small lunch, this is more like a 2/3 portion. The Pasta Pass is about nothing if not value, and I will eat well tomorrow. Not-Steve-O even put the breadsticks in the special oven-safe bags they provide for to-go orders, so I’ll be eating well. Hospitaliano may not extend to one’s colleagues, but he visited it upon the guests.

I got home with the Packers trailing and tried to put the bodysuit on the dog. Despite the fact that the package described it as an XL, it was tight on him, and he hated it. He’d been wearing the same t-shirt for nearly a week, though, so I decided to put a fresh one on him. He’s still bored right now, spends time after we come back from our micro-walks staring wistfully at the door, where adventure awaits. I’ve been in a similar boat, if only out of sympathy and concern—but soon enough, the world will once more be his Olive Garden.