One of our great frustrations in three years of Southern California living has been the awful pizza options.
It’s truly unbelievable. We live in a world of soggy crusts, or nasty cheese, of Ragu-esque sauce from a can. There are 1,000 places that promise “Real New York Pizza,” but fail to add, “Only in the case of a Nuclear Attack” to the end of that phrasing.
Seriously, the pizza here is that bad.
Yes, tonight we visited a new pizza joint that opened locally one week ago. And the food was off-the-chain terrific. Everything we tried reminded us (as much as possible) of our roots in New York. The pizza crust was flavorful, the sauce was bursting with flavor. From my chicken parm to the wife’s lasagna, everything was top shelf.
At last, I thought.
Then, about an hour ago, Emmett, our delightful 10-year-old son, vomited Italian food all over his bed and carpet.