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| - Note: It says "JIMMY DS" on my receipt, so I assume that Pi is a separate entity. It also has 15211 as the zip code. The website gives a zip code of 15222. I can hear Rod Serling in my head now.
The East Carson Street Pizza Gauntlet Part 4: Posher and Posher...
So yeah, I'm impressed at how RJ pegged this sojourn of ours. I assumed Pi would be a little upmarket because of the name; it's either cool, clever, pretentious, or all of those. We almost didn't walk in as the red lights under the bar and overall chichi atmosphere had us feeling like little lost urchins.
"May we have but a slice of pizza? We 'aven't eaten in a day or so."
Oh there's a 4th sister for sure. Zeeno's is the bubbly one who's a little short on looks but has a trailer full of personality. Sal's is the opposite number of Zeeno's; great to look at, not so much to talk to. Pizza Sola has the looks, the smarts, but is a tad dorky, which you love her for.
This one's just trying too hard to climb the social ladder. She'll get into the club but is mostly unapproachable, intimidating even, in an "I'll embarass you in front of your friends so badly, you'll stay home for the next 9 weekends" manner. And she will do it with nothing more than a look.
The only people that do get to know her are middle-aged married guys who pull down 6-figure salaries and just got some hair plugs along with a candy-apple Porsche and a Cialis prescription. And they do nothing but pay through the nose for the "pleasure" of her company, buying her lifts, tucks, and various extensions, injections, and augmentations.
She hates her other sisters and most other women.
We got the Margherita pizza since it was only 12 bucks (the cheapest pie here) and 6 cuts. No slices for sale here. Oh no. I'm shocked there wasn't a cover charge.
Now I had a similarly-named pizza at a black metal concert at Mr. Small's recently. As I stated in that review (go look it up, I'll wait), Mr. Small's take on this type of pie was amazing. It was as simple as it was brilliant; tomato sauce, globs of mozzarella dotted on top, herbs for days.
Pi's had it all, but you could tell they were really laboring at being "rustic" and whatnot. The cheese was only plopped on in a few spots. I never saw or tasted the ricotta that was supposed to be on it. The sauce was vapid.
The crust was floppy, paper thin,and bereft of life.
It was coal-fired, alrighty.
Coal was the only thing I tasted aside from cardboard.
Wait, there was no cardboard. It was the crust.
We each ate a cut and had the remaining three boxed up.
Kay ordered and liked her mixed drink. Speaking of which, Pi makes a good lemonade. It even had some kick to it. Was it Mike's? I dunno. I do know that I wanted the hell out of there after the Ghosts-Of-Jersey-Shore's-Future were getting too loud and obnoxious. I was so annoyed, I didn't stay to use the john, which created a problem later on. Stay tuned for a brief interlude to our saga.
I tried giving the pizza away several times as we walked along Carson to no avail. Finally we had a taker in a guy we met outside a Burger King who was half in the hopper.
Hey, when pizzas like that get really drunk and desperate, they lose all their pride and will go home with anyone.
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