My family and I are pizza snobs -- we've been through that. Despite my being a pizza snob, I can pretty much enjoy a less-than-wonderful slice, even as I list to myself (or to those around me) the reasons why it's no good. We've been through that too.
It's all just by way of saying that if someone tells me to try a certain pizza, I'll definitely do it. And tonight that someone was the person I trust the most: my mother. She said that she and my dad had actually found a decent pizza near their new pad and that I should check the place out.
My mom gave me a bum steer.
Well, not really. She didn't say the pizza was amazing; she said it was acceptable. But see, that's about the highest praise she and my father can muster for anything not made in:
* Mom's kitchen
* New Haven
* Italy
* France
France? What can I say -- a pie they had someplace in Provence is still being talked about.
So I guess my expectations were built up too high by the sheer nature of my stickler parents endorsing the joint. It's happened before. It's not like we didn't eat the pizza. Margy and I scarfed it down before we headed up to Vermont for a much-anticipated family reunion. The pie was, yes, acceptable. I should have asked them to make it well done, but I usually let a pizzeria do things its way the first time before I tell the guy I actually like some color on the crust.
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