We had remembered the biscuits being delicious. I am a bread lover and must first admit that. Though bread makes me doughy around the mid-section, not to mention I have a mild wheat/gluten intolerance. I hadn’t been to Red Lobster in twenty years never thinking the food was very good. Neither did she. But we both kept thinking about those warm flaky biscuits saturated in garlic, oil and seasoning. Those biscuits did sound good.

We took the half hour drive over having a twenty-dollar gift certificate to ease the burden.

The waitress had a very large behind and told us way too much information to keep track of, with her name and other names that I hadn’t asked for and didn’t need to know. We were only there for the biscuits and would order “cuisine” to justify the “dinner”.

Well, the biscuits came and they were fine: warm with oily garlic seasoning, but they were just okay. We looked at each other and kind of shrugged in defeat. We ordered water and an appetizer of lobster and artichoke dip that sounded delightful to the palate while our excited taste buds waited. We also ordered a dish consisting of shrimp scampi, butterfly shrimp, and seasoned fish.

The large restaurant was halfway packed and it was only five o’clock. We tried once before to fulfill the biscuit craving yet there was a forty-five minute wait. So this time we decided to outsmart the masses and go early.

The dip came and it was a gooey concoction of oil, grease, cheese, and more oil with some squishy texturous substance that resembled lobster and must have come out of a can, jar, or someone’s back seat. The shrimp scampi tasted as if they microwaved the shrimp then poured a vat of greasy oil stew upon the helpless shrimp with the tail still on. The butterfly shrimp was soaked in a milky white flavoring that resembled what could have been a jar of mayonnaise from Walmart that was then smeared upon the little fellows.

Shrimp are supposed to be tight and have a flavorful snap when you bite into them, not some mushy thing that’s sadly been sitting around all day under heat lamps and warmed up in some commercial-sized microwave. The last victim of the meal, besides us, was the fish that had more old bay seasoning on it then could ever be justified. Covering up something are we? The chips and water were the best part of “dinner”.

Before we finished, my date’s stomach started to turn and her face discolored. She had to excuse herself from the table.

I waited and sat alone as the walls began closing in. I could feel the oil upon my face and fingertips. I was becoming some sebaceous creature leaking oil out of my pores. I looked down at my hands now glistening and quickly hid them under the table. I then looked around at the many people blissfully enjoying themselves with their “sustenance” and happy wait staff. I couldn’t understand the place or the food. Like why does the food need to be prepared like this? Why ruin it? I waited longer now standing up at the booth while the crowds and families began piling in for another Saturday night frenzy of chewing gelatinous mush that only resembled food. My stomach turned as I thought about the process to get this poor shrimp onto the table in front of me. I was beginning to sweat.

The overly-friendly black waitress with the big butt and name I couldn’t remember inquired about the quality of dinner. “It was okay,” I answered.

“Would you like me to box that up?” We both looked down at the oily stew that reflected the ceiling and overhead lights.

“Ahh, no thanks.”

I paid the bill. Jennifer returned to the table a few minutes later. We walked to the lobby. Jen sat and waited while I went to wash my hands and face in the bathroom.

After escaping, the bumps on the road stirred up the ocean in my belly with a floating biscuit upon the oily sea. I cracked open the windows.

We made it home from the half hour ride without incident. I headed straight upstairs to let the oil pouch drain out of my body. Jen also returned to the only place Red Lobster belonged, in the toilet. Straight into the toilet. We should have taken the dishes straight there and cut out us, the middlemen. We’d be feeling a lot better now. Hopefully those biscuits will never call to us again.