Stinky Feet Pizza

Tonight The Barrister and I decided to celebrate the completion of the first draft of a major project I've been working on - and Wednesdayness in general - by going out for dinner. For our celebratory outing, we selected an Italian restaurant in the same building complex as my office. The restaurant has been open on and off in the last two years under at least three different names and who-knows how many owners. Its most recent rise from the ashes supposedly brought delicious brick-oven pizza and other authentic Italian delicacies. So, The Barrister and I decided to give it a chance.

To start, we had wonderfully salty bread and the kind of olive oil that makes you realize what olive oil is supposed to taste like. As I contemplated my order, I watched the pizza oven flame and saw several steaming pies pulled out of its depths. Even though I was favoring the spinach ravioli, I made a last minute switch upon seeing a pizza with pineapple, balsalmic vinager and gorgonzola cheese.

In my trilogy of decades, I know that gorgonzola cheese has passed my lips. But I'm not sure that I've ever had gorgonzola melted and smothering the entirety of my meal. As soon as our waitress set the pizza down, I inhaled a lung-full of sweaty foot odor. Startled, I sniffed again and realized that - sweet fancy Moses - the smell was coming from my dinner.

As The Barrister dug into his pizza - dotted with cuts of spicy salami, black olives and pesto - I tentatively put the stinky feet pizza in my mouth. I chewed thoughtfully. I swallowed. I waited. And then the foot odor taste wound around my tongue. The Barrister exclaimed over his pizza while I bit and gnashed and swallowed dutifully, trying to make it taste better. Half the pizza, I told myself. But one slice shy of my personal pan, I took the last bite of the wedge in hand. And in my mouth, the full intensity of potent stinky feet pizza exploded, assaulting my tastebuds. I winced a little and gagged. The vile triangle of death, the stinky feet pizza crushed my resolve. I put down my knife and fork and surrendered.

But don't feel too sorry for me. I consoled myself in an Italian confection whose name translated to "Drowning in Chocolate."