| rev:text
| - I'm not often out in the East end, so when a comedy performance brought me and some chums out to the Danforth last week, I pulled out my handy Yelp app to guide us to a pizzeria that Chum One said he was told about by a friend of his. We read reviews for Danforth Pizza House, and decided it was the best candidate, so we headed over.
When we got there, the woman at the counter took our pizza orders (it seemed quite economical for the three of us to just order a small pizza each, and share slices). She scribbled it down on a piece of paper, as she occasionally pressed the button to hang up their phone -- which seemed to be intentionally left off the hook -- when it would begin to blare the dial tone, as phones off of hooks are wont to do.
The phone, by the way, was probably the most modern piece of equipment in there. I pointed to the ancient analogue cash register and quipped to Chum 1, "I take it they don't do debit." Chum 1 laughed, but I think it was just because he recognized my joking tone and was being polite; we both knew that was a lazy half-joke on my part. I should have taken the time to think of something better.
Anyway, we were told they'd take about an hour. They took a little longer, but no biggie. About halfway through eating my black-olive/pineapple pizza (my go-to topping combination), I took a break to go to the bathroom, where my defining Danforth Pizza House moment would occur.
I'm going down the stairs, when I hear the unmuffled sound of a man's urination into a toilet. "If the door is properly closed," I correctly surmised, "I shouldn't be able to hear that." Sure enough, I get to the bottom of the stairs to see the chef/owner man doing his thing in the men's room, door fully ajar. Sure, his back is to me, but it's a private, one-toilet bathroom, clearly visible as soon as you reach the bottom of the stairs. Closing the door would take a minimal amount of effort (but then he'd also have to click on the light, which he also didn't do). I politely hang back, waiting my turn to use the washroom. Chef-man finishes up, dusts his hands off against his big chef apron a few times and leaves the bathroom. He turns around, sees me, gives a surprised, "Oh!", then continues up the stairs. YOU DIDN'T WASH YOUR HANDS! But he had already left the range of my psychic projection. The bathroom was not nearly on the clean side neither - that toilet rim couldn't have been cleaned in the last week, I'd guess.
Anyway, I didn't touch the rest of my pizza. Chum 1 and Chum 2 seemed not altogether turned off when I told them what I saw, but they can swim in their germ cocktail, for all I care! (That's not a nice thing to say about your chums, Andrew) (SHUT UP!)
How was the pizza? Definitely above the quality of most Toronto pizzerias. Probably in the top 10% for my palate. Definitely below Libretto though. To their credit, it's great to see such a genuine mom-and-pop, everything-handmade-in-front-of-you pizzeria. I'd have given four stars if I didn't witness what I think is an inexcusable sanitary violation.
Oh, how's this, this is better: I should have pointed to the old register and said, like, "Where do I swipe my debit card in this thing?" No, that's not great either. Forget it.
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