I Shoulda Zidaned the Chef, Now that I Think About It...

Sheena is crabby and irritable this week. I know, I know... whattdya mean "this" week.

On Monday night I ate the shittiest awfulest pizza in the world in Toronto's Little Italy. For the last 3 days I've been pondering whether to write about it. I will. But I will not use its names.

We started with a very nice Italian bread with pour-your-own olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Oiled it up, but skipped the vinegar per usual. How come it's oil and vinegar and piss and vinegar? Dammit. I knew that yellow liquid tasted weird.

The Caprese Salad was great, no complaints with that one.

Then the Pizzas showed up. Mine was supposed to be a white pizza with prosciutto. The others were variations of pepperoni or sausage with veggies. Standard stuff. Mine was almost inedible as is. The thin crust (which normally je love) was like a big but tasteless pappadum that shattered when you tried to cut it. Ended up just picking off the ham with my fingers and that was that. The others just looked wet and kind of raw. The green peppers were marginally cooked, just enough to sweat all over the cheese and crust so as to make it soggy and cold.

Wasn't physically possible to take any of mine home, so idiotically asked to pack up the other leftovers. Took it for lunch the next day. When I opened it, I saw that the waiter had put the slices front-to-front, crust side up, so that the still somewhat warm cheese and toppings reached out to each other like a Vulcan Mind meld. Rolled it up into a big ball and ate it cold at my desk.

For breakfast.