Thank you, Olive Garden

You took me in when I was far away from home, a sick stranger in a strip-malled land. When the cheerfully vacant, brightly-smiling waitress, unfazed by my obvious illness and exhaustion, promised to "take care of me," I almost cried in relief. The never-ending soup bowl would have come back replenished, fast and furious, if I had needed it. Your people checked on me every few moments to see if I could tackle more soup or needed a topping off on the cold, life-sustaining water I was sucking down at an alarming rate. The soup itself, that hot, salty nectar of the hearth gods, fulfilled every promise of the first food I had eaten in two days. The buttered breadsticks, waving companionably from their basket, didn't demand attention or project offense when I nibbled disinterestedly on only one bite. The bustling efficiency in the delivery of massive quantities of food swirled around me, lending comfort and normalcy to my nauseous and dizzied self. My waitress' sweetly honest concern, projected throughout the meal, and her well-wishes, tendered before she checked the amount of the tip, buoyed me for the drive back to the hotel and the physical ordeal in the days to come. The line out the door at I left at 6 PM assured me that I had made the right choice, the choice of the people.