They bring the bread before you have even settled into the booth. This is not a gesture of kindness. It is a siege tactic designed to destroy the structural integrity of the human ego. The rolls arrive in a basket lined with red paper, pulsing with thermal energy, glowing like freshly forged ingots from the fires of Mount Doom. Beside them lies a silver tub of cinnamon-honey butter. "I will eat one," I said to myself. A man who believes he can eat one Texas Roadhouse roll is a man who believes he can negotiate with a tsunami. The bread does not require chewing. It surrenders instantly to the teeth, collapsing into a sweet, yeasty cloud of pure dopamine. The butter melts on contact, weaponized with enough sugar to fell an ox. I had ordered an eighteen-ounce ribeye. It was resting on a grill ten yards away. It had a future. It had a purpose. By the time the waitress returned with my water, the basket was empty. Only a few crumbs remained, like ashes after a forest fire. She looked at the empty basket. She did not ask. She was an agent of chaos. She produced a second basket from beneath the tray, steaming, golden, fatal. "Need more butter, darlin'?" I looked at the woman. I saw what she was doing. She was attempting to drown my mortal flesh in carbohydrates before the protein could arrive to save me. This was the ancient hospitality of the frontier—so aggressive, so terrifyingly abundant, that to refuse it was to insult the concept of survival itself. I did not refuse. "Yes, ma'am," I said, my voice shaking. When the ribeye arrived twenty minutes later, I looked upon it with the hollow eyes of a man who has already consumed two thousand calories of wheat and lies. I took the steak home in a styrofoam box. The rolls had won. The rolls always win.