On this night of snowy anguish in the Northeast, I’ll tell you what we don’t have enough of in California. We don’t have enough Italians!
The Foxes had pizza tonight. Man’s gotta live. It wasn’t like Pepe’s or Sergio’s. No one named Maria or Theresa had a hand in its preparation. There were no Tonys in the house.
Pieology. No one here has heard of Jerry Vale.
However, Pieology has made a discovery that will change pizza!
OK–pause. Right here I’m worried about having a George Bush 41 moment. You know, the one at the grocery convention where he didn’t know what a scanner was. If I’ve missed this breakthrough, be gentle.
“Would you like them in a bag,” the cashier asked as my pies sat on the counter?
I was confused. They were already in boxes. She bent down and came up with plastic bag about as thick as a sandwich bag.
The three pies fit in perfectly. The bag included a handle. It felt sturdy in my hand.
I knew if I
hit a bump (oops — forgot it was Irvine) have to stop short or for whatever reason the pie can’t soil the car.
Where have these bags been all my life?
Thankfully, the old adage about pizza and sex is totally true.
One thought on “Pizza In SoCal”
Nevermind the bags, is the pizza any good? Inquiring minds want to know if its decent pizza…so I can take my wife there with minimal risk (grin)