We tried to have Chinese food last night, but failed.

There's a new cluster of stores that opened in the neighborhood. We thought we were walking into the Chinese restaurant that work friends raved about, but instead we were in an Italian restaurant. This particular mistake only came to my consciousness as I read the menu, which said, Pasta Pomodoro.

I showed the menu to my son and his friend and we sort of laughed over it, deciding, to hell with it, let's just try this place.

It was packed. Mostly with families, and it was noisy as hell. Usually, this is all a good sign.

I immediately noticed the napkins. They didn't feel like ordinary paper napkins. They were thick. Actually, they were way more thick than you'd ever expect a paper napkin should feel. They were sort of spongy and stretchy. I commented to the boys that they kind of felt like diapers.

This lead me to imagine an entire scenario. In my mind I imagined this as the kind of place where gluttonous couples come to stuff themselves; the man would tuck the diaper/napkin in his collar - wearing it like a bib - and the woman would gab non-stop, wearing huge glasses like Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie. They'd eat like mob bosses. Flecks of spit flying out their mouths. Their diaper/napkins stained like butchers' aprons.

I looked around the restaurant and saw almost no one exactly like that.

But those napkins actually began to depress me. They were so over done. They seemed like tokens of acknowledgement that Americans can't possibly eat enough, and when they eat, they get filthy in the process. I've watched the Food Network, and seen barbeque cook-offs, and know of what I write.

We're a nation of Bam! Kick it up a notch! BAM!-BAM!-BAM!-BAM!-BAM! We eat every meal like it was Christmas dinner, then shrug our shoulders when our doctors diagnose us with diabetes, heart disease, and whatever else.

We develop cult diets that further our love of gluttonous behavior. All meat, all cheese, and you'll drop the pounds! Yippee! I knew those vegetarian bastards were just fuckin' with us! Let's show 'em honey!

The thing was, my meal at Pasta Pomodoro was total shit. Seriously. It was - no kidding - the absolute worst plate of pasta I'd ever had in my life.

To be a glutton after caviar or rare meats is one thing; it's potentially understandable. But to slowly kill yourself eating shit that you think is "real good eye-talian grub" is just pure spiraling madness.