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  • A while back a friend brought over a white pizza from some central Phoenix pizza establishment that made me change the way i looked at cheese. I've been searching for it ever since, which lead me to finally give Manhattan a try the other day. Why did it take so long when it is just down the street from me? This place is super fucking creepy. Just driving by it gives me the heeby geebies. Looks like a waffle house without the sweet giant globe lights. Or truckers, or anybody. Where are the people? How does it stay in business? Drug front? I call and some woman mumbles into the phone like she is reacting to a soap opera. "Ummm...is this manhattan pizzeria?" "Yes, take your order?" Not a good start. I put in the order for the while pizza and they tell me it will be ready in 10. I give it closer to 20, and the pizza is still not ready, exactly what I had most feared. Me, alone, in the waffle-less waffle house and only my imagination to keep me company. There is no decoration other then two old New York posters, no tv, no music, and no people except for the three immigrant workers speaking their eastern European dialect. They all seem angry. They keep on sniping at each other with short, curt comments. It's like I got stuck in one of those indie dramas about a depressing immigrant families that gets really high reviews but no one ever sees because they are boring as hell. Maybe you rent it and watch the first half, but you are going to fall asleep before the troubled teenage daughter commits suicide. Thank the heavens when the santa-esque chef finally comes out with my pizza and gets me my tiramasu. I get the hell out of there as soon as possible before they start throwing pans at each other. And the result of my quest, pretty good pizza and tiramasu, but not mind-blowing like I hoped, and not worth the torture of sharing the immigrant drama. Will I ever find that white pizza or was someone just having a really good day when they made it?
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