One day Margy and I stumbled upon an odd little pizzeria/Italian restaurant tucked away on a side street near our house. It was our duty to give the place a shot.
Tonight I walked in the door to take a look at the joint and order a pie to go. (It is my policy to place my order in person on the first take-out visit to a given pizzeria, in case there's something special I could try that wouldn't be obvious unless I saw a menu, or in case, heaven forbid, I get a bad feeling and decide to turn around.)
Inside the door of the restaurant, time stood still. All of the decor was in shades of brown and done in the 1970s, at the latest. No problem. This, after all, was a pizza place. Still, something seemed off. There was an inordinate amount of rather insistent "NO STROLLERS!" signs. And then there was a plaque near the entrance explaining that in the event that the dining room is full, customers should give their name up front and then kindly get the hell out of the way of the people who are eating. It didn't say it like that, of course, but its tone was snippy. And the dining room wasn't anywhere near full, which I suspected was usually the case.
So you could say there were some warning signs, just not enough to stop me from purchasing a pizza, the pizza being the most important part of the equation. But, and perhaps not surprisingly, it was a very ordinary pie. The cheese didn't distinguish itself in any way, the crust was crisp but flavorless, and I would bet the sauce was the same red stuff I was seeing come out of the kitchen atop plates of pasta. But you know what? The sausage was really good. And that's something.
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