It’s fashionable in 2025 to sneer at the chain restaurant. The discourse demands that we all pretend our palates are calibrated exclusively for chef-driven farm-to-table concepts where someone in a denim apron insists the kale was “foraged.” To admit you still eat at Olive Garden is like confessing you still burn CDs or own a landline. But I’ll say it plainly: I love chain restaurants. Not in an ironic, “so-bad-it’s-good” way. Not in a guilty-pleasure way. Just in the regular, human way that acknowledges sometimes breadsticks are good and sometimes good food is good food.
This love isn’t blind. I know the food isn’t as good as the options down the street. I know the service depends on whether your server is a seasoned pro or a teenager praying the table doesn’t order fajitas five minutes before close. But nostalgia is a powerful seasoning, and chain restaurants are where so many of us learned the grammar of dining out—our first dates, our family birthdays, our post-football-game carbo loads.
So yes, I am prepared to mount a defense for Olive Garden, Texas Roadhouse, Abuelos, On the Border, Outback, Cracker Barrel, Cheddar’s, Chuy’s, Applebee’s, and Maggiano’s. Not because they are perfect, but because they are perfectly American.
Olive Garden: When You’re Here, You’re Co-Dependent
The hate for Olive Garden has always struck me as performative. We all know the breadsticks slap. The salad dressing could be bottled as cologne. Yet food snobs treat it like a culinary hate crime. The décor screams “Tuscan airport lounge,” the pasta is too soft, and the sauces cling like codependent exes—but none of that matters. You sit, you order, you dip bread into Alfredo like it’s holy water, and suddenly life is tolerable.
Olive Garden is family not because of the marketing tagline, but because you will always know someone who insists they don’t like it, then eats an entire basket of breadsticks in silence. That’s family.
Texas Roadhouse: Yeast Rolls as Religion
The peanut shells may be gone, but the spirit of Texas Roadhouse lives in its yeast rolls, hot and glistening, delivered free to the table like communion. Yes, the steaks are fine, and yes, the servers line-dancing in unison is a hostage video of Americana—but those rolls are why people show up. Slather them with cinnamon butter, and you could negotiate peace treaties.
Critics sneer that it’s loud, that it’s a caricature of Texas, that the steaks are better elsewhere. All true. And yet every booth is full, because nobody has ever walked into Texas Roadhouse and left hungry, sober, or disappointed in the rolls.
Abuelo’s: Tex-Mex Without the Apology
Abuelo’s has the air of a place trying just a little too hard to impress you—murals on the wall, tile work that feels imported from Hobby Lobby’s “fiesta” aisle. But the food is the kind of Tex-Mex you dream about at 11 p.m. after three margaritas: sizzling fajitas, cheese-smothered enchiladas, queso that could legally qualify as building insulation.
Will the salsa rival the family-owned taquería down the block? Of course not. But Abuelo’s doesn’t pretend. It serves up queso like it’s a dare and lets you drown in it.
On the Border: Where Chips and Salsa Are an Identity
On the Border is one of those places that critics insist doesn’t need to exist. And yet, somehow, it keeps existing. The chips and salsa arrive like an IV drip for your soul, the fajitas arrive with enough steam to trigger fire alarms, and the margaritas are the size of swimming pools.
Nobody goes here for authenticity. They go because sometimes you just need a place where “bottomless chips” feels like a promise and not a threat.
Outback: Bloomin’ With Pride
If you’re not American, Outback Steakhouse must feel like a fever dream. It claims to be Australian but is essentially Texan cosplay with kangaroo branding. The Bloomin’ Onion remains one of the most successful culinary war crimes in history—deep-fried, salted, and engineered to annihilate your arteries while keeping you blissfully unaware until dessert.
Yes, better steaks exist. Yes, the décor is theme-park kitsch. But Outback’s genius is that it doesn’t matter. You order a steak, you split the onion, and for two hours you believe in a world where geography is irrelevant and steak knives are always sharp.
Cracker Barrel: Pancakes, Rocking Chairs, and Resentment
Cracker Barrel has been dragged for years, accused of everything from outdated décor to outdated politics. And yet, the pancakes. The fried chicken. The hash brown casserole. The fact that every meal comes with three sides like you’re carbo-loading for a siege.
The gift shop is purgatory—wind chimes, Bible verse wall art, and candy your grandmother swears “they don’t make anymore.” And yet, the food. Cracker Barrel is like visiting that problematic relative you know you shouldn’t love, but they make biscuits that justify your hypocrisy.
Cheddar’s: Casual Dining Without the Pretension
Cheddar’s Scratch Kitchen sounds like the name of a craft cat food brand. But inside, you find the platonic ideal of casual dining. Chicken tenders. Comfort food. Margaritas that could floor a sailor. Prices that make you wonder if someone forgot to update the menu since 2004.
Critics dismiss it as generic. But sometimes generic is the goal. Cheddar’s is the comfort TV of dining: predictable, soothing, always there when you need it.
Chuy’s: Tex-Mex on Ecstasy
Chuy’s is the manic cousin of the Tex-Mex family. Décor straight out of a garage sale, Elvis shrines, hubcaps stapled to walls. The food is smothered in cheese, the margaritas are lethal, and the vibe is one part chaos, one part family reunion.
The authenticity police love to roll their eyes. But authenticity is overrated when the queso is bottomless and the tortillas taste like nostalgia. Chuy’s is chaos, and chaos tastes good.
Applebee’s: The Meme That Refuses to Die
Applebee’s has become a meme, shorthand for mediocrity. But the mozzarella sticks still slap, the happy hour still delivers, and the Dollarita remains the only inflation-proof item in America. Yes, it’s suburban purgatory. Yes, it smells faintly of regret. But where else can you drink three margaritas for the price of a movie ticket and eat riblets at 11:30 p.m. without judgment?
Applebee’s thrives because it knows its role: it is the safety net of American dining. When you don’t know where else to go, Applebee’s is there, glowing neon, waiting with fries.
Maggiano’s: Faux Italian, Real Comfort
Maggiano’s is Olive Garden’s older, slightly more expensive cousin. It’s Italian food for people who believe “family style” means “bring me more lasagna until I pass out.” The lighting is dim, the portions are obscene, and the waiters wear vests like they’re auditioning for a mob movie.
Critics mock it for being faux Italian. But nobody goes to Maggiano’s expecting Florence. They go because pasta, when served in trough-like portions, is happiness. Nostalgia tastes like red sauce, and Maggiano’s understands that better than anyone.
Of Course It Depends on the Staff
Chain restaurants aren’t about the food. They’re about the staff. A good server can make Olive Garden feel like Michelin. A bad one can turn Outback into a hostage situation. We’ve all had both experiences. That’s part of the gamble.
But when the staff is good—when the refills arrive on time, when the rolls are hot, when the jokes land—the chain transforms. It becomes community theater that actually works.
Nostalgia as Seasoning
Part of the defense of chains is nostalgia. These are the restaurants where your grandparents took you after soccer games, where you nervously ordered chicken Alfredo on a first date, where you celebrated graduations before you knew what “tasting menu” meant.
We love them not because they’re the best food, but because they’re the best memories served reheated. Nostalgia is the secret sauce, and it’s stronger than any aioli.
The Haunting Close
Food snobs can sneer all they want. They can write think pieces about how local restaurants deserve our loyalty and chains crush creativity. They’re not wrong. But they’re also not right. Because the truth is simpler: sometimes good food is good food. Sometimes the steak at Outback hits. Sometimes the breadsticks at Olive Garden carry you through the week. Sometimes the pancakes at Cracker Barrel taste like the childhood you wish you had.
Chain restaurants survive because we survive. They adapt, they linger, they fade, they come back. And the haunting truth is this: we don’t just eat at these places. We are these places—unpopular, imperfect, nostalgic, but still here, still serving.