Freed from its associations and reduced to mouthfeel, olive garden is a sumptuous phrase, like mountain dew or hidden valley. Say it a few times aloud, and you forget the restaurant. Say it a few more times, and it loses all meaning. You can summon everything at once: sun-bleached stone and warm yellow walls, plush grasses, pillowed booths, incandescence, the smell of bread, the smell of oils, the smell of a fruit that is said to be holy. Chain restaurants are soothing because they are the same everywhere, like hymns.
