My son-in-law's wedding reception dinner was routed to an Olive Garden banquet room between the San Diego chapel and the country club ballroom. The food was rationed out by Seinfeld's soup nazis--I was not aware of its quality, only of the stern attention to business of the guards. A charge was issued for each additional breadstick--I jest, but just.
The intent of the teevee commercials is to create the schmoozy Norman Rockwell impression of the Italian family dinner--a nice pool into which tense American families can submerge their busy worries.
The author of the piece makes his money carping. He's a carp on a plate at a place I wouldn't go, not being family.