The Applebee's Affair
Or: A Love Story Set in the Amber Glow of Faux-Irish Pub Lighting
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I am in love with Applebee's.
No.
Wait.
I hate Applebee's.
Actually—
I'm not sure.
The relationship is... complicated.
Like all great love affairs, it's defined not by consistency—
but by passion.
By volatility.
By the constant push and pull between what I know I should want—
and what I actually want at 9 PM on a Tuesday.
We've been on-again, off-again for twenty years.
Sometimes I swear it's over.
That I'm done.
That I deserve better.
That I'm a grown adult who can make better choices.
And then—
and then—
I see the sign.
That apple.
That red, glossy, slightly judgmental apple.
And I pull into the parking lot.
Because apparently, I have no self-control.
And Applebee's knows it.
THE BEGINNING
It started innocently.
As all toxic relationships do.
I was seventeen.
Post-theater rehearsal.
Starving.
And someone said the magic words:
"Applebee's has half-price appetizers after 9."
Half. Price. Appetizers.
At seventeen, this is not a suggestion.
This is a revelation.
This is the economic model upon which I would structure the next decade of my life.
We went.
A group of theater kids.
Loud. Obnoxious. Probably undertipping.
We ordered:
Mozzarella sticks
Boneless wings
Spinach artichoke dip
Quesadillas
More mozzarella sticks
We stayed for three hours.
Refilling our sodas.
Laughing too loud.
Being the exact kind of customers that servers hate.
And I thought:
This is it.
This is freedom.
This is what adulthood looks like.
I was so naive.
THE HONEYMOON PHASE
For a while, it was perfect.
Applebee's was always there.
Consistent.
Reliable.
Open late.
And crucially—
Affordable.
I could go to Applebee's and feel like I was dining out.
Like I was a person who went to restaurants.
Sure, the food was microwaved.
Sure, the décor looked like a TGI Friday's had a garage sale.
Sure, every surface was inexplicably sticky.
But it was mine.
My spot.
My affordable rebellion against home cooking.
I had favorites:
The Bourbon Street Chicken & Shrimp (a name that promised more than it delivered, but still)
The Oriental Chicken Salad (before they changed the name for obvious reasons)
The Riblets (not ribs, riblets—a distinction I didn't understand but accepted)
And of course, the endless refills of whatever diabetes they were calling "lemonade"
I knew the menu.
I knew which appetizers were actually worth it.
I knew that the "sizzling" fajitas were 70% sound effects.
I was fluent in Applebee's.
THE FIRST BREAK
The first time I left, I thought it was for good.
I was in my mid-twenties.
Dating someone who considered themselves a "foodie."
They took me to places with names I couldn't pronounce.
Places that served "deconstructed" things.
Places where the portions were small and the conversations about the food were large.
And they said—
with the casual cruelty of someone who's never appreciated a good mozzarella stick—
"Applebee's? Really? You know that's not real food, right?"
And I—
wanting to impress them—
wanting to be the kind of person who ate at places with exposed brick and Edison bulbs—
said:
"Yeah. You're right. I don't even like Applebee's."
Liar.
I was a liar.
And the relationship didn't last.
But my time away from Applebee's did.
I convinced myself I'd outgrown it.
That I was better than Applebee's.
I went to other restaurants.
Local places.
"Authentic" places.
Places where the servers described the specials with the passion of Shakespearean soliloquies.
And they were fine.
Good, even.
But they weren't—
They weren't Applebee's.
THE RETURN
I came back on a Tuesday.
Late.
After a particularly bad audition.
I was driving home, feeling sorry for myself.
And I saw it.
The sign.
Applebee's.
And without thinking—
without even questioning it—
I pulled in.
Walked through those doors.
Was greeted by a hostess who looked like she'd given up on life somewhere around 2014.
Was seated in a booth with ripped vinyl.
And I ordered.
Bourbon Street Chicken & Shrimp.
Diet Coke.
And when it arrived—
steaming, sizzling (allegedly), covered in that suspicious brown sauce—
I took a bite.
And I was home.
Not good home.
Not "this is delicious" home.
But familiar home.
"I know exactly what this is going to taste like and that's why I'm here" home.
Applebee's doesn't surprise you.
And sometimes—
especially after a bad day—
that's exactly what you need.
THE PATTERN
After that, the pattern was established.
I'd swear off Applebee's.
Go months without visiting.
Tell people I "don't really do chain restaurants."
Pretend I was above it.
And then—
inevitably—
something would happen.
A bad day.
A late night.
A moment of weakness.
And I'd be back.
Sitting in a booth.
Eating food I couldn't quite identify.
Drinking lemonade that was definitely 90% corn syrup.
And feeling... okay.
Not great.
Not transformed.
Just... okay.
And sometimes, okay is enough.
THE CRITICISMS
I know what you're thinking.
I know the criticisms.
I've heard them all.
"The food is microwaved."
Yes. Obviously. I have accepted this. I have made peace with this.
"It's not real ethnic food."
I know! I KNOW! The "Oriental Chicken Salad" was never fooling anyone! The Bourbon Street Chicken has probably never been within 1,000 miles of Louisiana! I'm aware!
"The atmosphere is depressing."
Is it though? Or is it just... honest? Applebee's isn't pretending to be something it's not. It's not promising you an "experience." It's promising you fried cheese and a place to sit. And it delivers.
"You could make this at home for cheaper."
Could I? Could I really? Because making this at home would require:
Planning
Shopping
Cooking
Cleaning
And I'm sorry, but if I wanted to do all that, I wouldn't be at Applebee's at 9:30 PM on a Wednesday, would I?
"There are better restaurants."
Are there? Are there really? Because better restaurants require:
Reservations
Waiting
Dress codes (sometimes)
Conversations with servers who want to tell you about their "journey" with the food
Applebee's requires none of this. You show up. You order. You eat. You leave. It's transactional. And I respect that.
THE DEFENSE
Let me defend Applebee's.
Not because it needs defending.
But because I need to defend my choice to keep going back.
1. It's Predictable
You know what you're getting. Always. The Bourbon Street Chicken in Ohio tastes exactly like the Bourbon Street Chicken in Indiana. This is not a bug. This is a feature.
2. It's Affordable
I can eat at Applebee's for $15. With a drink. And an appetizer if it's half-price hour. Show me another sit-down restaurant where this is possible. I'll wait.
3. It's Accessible
Applebee's doesn't judge. You can show up in sweatpants. You can show up alone. You can show up at 10 PM on a Sunday. They don't care. They're just happy you're there.
4. It's Nostalgic
Applebee's tastes like being seventeen and having nowhere else to go. It tastes like late-night conversations in booths. It tastes like a time when $20 felt like wealth. And sometimes, that's worth more than "authentic cuisine."
5. It's Honest
Applebee's isn't trying to be fancy. It's not serving you "artisanal" anything. It's serving you exactly what it says on the menu. In a world full of restaurants that overpromise and underdeliver, there's something refreshing about a place that just... is what it is.
THE INCIDENTS
Of course, it hasn't all been smooth.
There have been... incidents.
Incident #1: The Quesadilla That Wasn't
Ordered a chicken quesadilla. Received what appeared to be a tortilla that had been briefly introduced to the concept of cheese. No chicken. Just... sadness. Folded.
Incident #2: The Endless Wait
Once waited 45 minutes for mozzarella sticks. FORTY-FIVE MINUTES. For something that is, by definition, supposed to be fast. When they arrived, they were cold. I ate them anyway. This is on me.
Incident #3: The Bathroom
I will not elaborate. If you've been to an Applebee's bathroom, you know. If you haven't, I cannot adequately prepare you.
Incident #4: The Manager
Had a conversation with a manager who looked like he'd been there since the restaurant opened in 1980. He had the energy of someone who'd seen too much. Made too many boneless wings. Heard too many complaints about wait times. I tipped extra. It felt like the right thing to do.
Incident #5: The Birthday Song
They sang to me once. I didn't ask them to. Someone at another table told them it was my birthday. It wasn't. They sang anyway. I sat there, mortified, while strangers clapped. I have never recovered.
THE CURRENT STATUS
Where are we now, Applebee's and I?
It's... complicated.
We're in an "on" phase.
I've been going about once a month.
Always late.
Always alone or with one other person who understands.
Always ordering the same thing.
Always getting exactly what I expect.
And I'm... okay with it.
I'm not pretending anymore.
Not pretending I'm too good for Applebee's.
Not pretending I don't enjoy the predictability.
Not pretending that sometimes—
after a long day—
all I want is to sit in a dimly lit booth and eat something that tastes exactly like it did ten years ago.
THE PHILOSOPHY
Here's what I've learned from my torrid affair with Applebee's:
Lesson 1: Authenticity Is Overrated
Everyone's obsessed with "authentic" food. But you know what's authentic? Consistently getting exactly what you ordered. That's authentic. That's honest.
Lesson 2: Comfort Doesn't Have to Be Fancy
Comfort food isn't about Michelin stars. It's about familiarity. About knowing what you're going to get and getting it. Applebee's is the sweatpants of dining. And sometimes, you need sweatpants.
Lesson 3: Judgment Says More About the Judge
People love to judge Applebee's. And by extension, people who eat there. But here's the thing: everyone has their guilty pleasure. Their comfort zone. Their place they go when they don't want to think. Mine just happens to have mozzarella sticks.
Lesson 4: Consistency Is Undervalued
In a chaotic world, there's something beautiful about knowing that no matter where you are, no matter what's happening, there's an Applebee's. And it will serve you the exact same mediocre food with the exact same level of service. That's not a flaw. That's reliability.
Lesson 5: Sometimes "Good Enough" Is Good Enough
Not every meal needs to be an event. Not every dining experience needs to be memorable. Sometimes, you just need food. And a booth. And a place where nobody knows your name but also nobody cares. And that's okay.
THE FUTURE
Will I keep going to Applebee's?
Yes.
Probably.
Almost certainly.
Will I continue to have mixed feelings about it?
Absolutely.
Will there be more breakups? More returns?
Undoubtedly.
Because that's the nature of our relationship.
Applebee's and I.
We're not healthy.
We're not perfect.
But we're familiar.
And in a world that's constantly changing—
where restaurants close and menus evolve and neighborhoods gentrify—
there's something comforting about a place that never changes.
That never gets better.
But never gets worse.
That just... is.
THE DECLARATION
So here it is.
My official statement.
My public acknowledgment.
I am in a relationship with Applebee's.
It's on-again, off-again.
It's complicated.
It's probably unhealthy.
But it's mine.
And I'm done pretending otherwise.
I'm done apologizing for my mozzarella sticks.
Done defending my Bourbon Street Chicken.
Done explaining why I choose predictable mediocrity over adventurous disappointment.
I am Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld.
And I eat at Applebee's.
Regularly.
Judge me if you must.
But know this:
When your fancy restaurant closes.
When your favorite local spot changes ownership.
When the world feels chaotic and uncertain—
Applebee's will still be there.
In a strip mall.
Next to a Ross Dress for Less.
With its sticky tables and its questionable lighting and its endless Diet Coke refills.
Waiting.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, carrying a to-go container of leftover riblets he will absolutely eat for breakfast tomorrow. Behind him, the Applebee's sign glows in the night—red apple shining like a beacon, a promise, a comfortable mistake he'll make again next month. The affair continues.)