It’s a step down from Olive Garden (yep) and a notch above your TV dinner—the one that’s been sitting in the freezer for too long. And thanks to geography, it’s where my high school crew (read: a bunch of debate nerds) used to gather for cheap, quick and only semi-regrettable after-class grub.

But dammit, Fazoli’s, you were there for us. Just a block away from Green Valley High, you came through when that cardboard boat full of Michelina’s fettucine alfredo just wasn’t cutting it—or when I didn’t have enough cash for all-you-can-eat soup, salad and breadsticks up the street.

That location has long since closed, but with news hitting that Las Vegas’ last Fazoli’s (in Summerlin) quietly shuttered in early February, I can’t help but feel nostalgic. Was it the plump, juicy tomato sign, beckoning me like an Italian version of the giant golden arches, or the familiarity of its undeniably suburban design—dependably boxy and frumpy (always with red, white and green awnings) and faintly reminiscent of Sizzler? Perhaps it was the promise of free breadsticks that made us look past the not-quite-honest slogan, “Fast, fresh Italian”—or the fact that we were 15 and without taste buds. At Fazoli’s, those buttery, garlicky carb slabs were a peace offering, an apology before that unfailing stomach bomb exploded like a meatball cooked too long in the microwave (and it always did). They understood their food wasn’t great, but they extended the olive-oil branch to stifle our buyer’s remorse. It was a kind gesture, those breadsticks. And I appreciated every. Single. One.

Fazoli’s, other people might not miss you—hell, I didn’t for the last ten years. But now that you’re gone, it’s as if a little piece of my heart is missing—a pizza slice from my childhood, gone forever. You’d better bet that every time I eat a breadstick from here on out, it’ll be in your honor. As they say, rest in pasta.