Stumbling past Amatos on a late night coming back from Kensington or something else in the College-Spadina-Queen belt, I am often tempted to stop in for a slice. Maybe it's the booze talking, but nothing looks more appealing than the lurid glow from Amato's windows.
I think I've had Amato pizza during the day exactly one time. It wasn't very good. It didn't seem like the pie was put together well, and the veggie toppings slid off from the slice almost seemingly in disgust. I remained unenthusiastic.
Many late night trips later, I can't tell you what's compelling about Amato pizza after going to a show and having some drinks. Maybe the thrill of eating outside standing over a garbage can, or the potato pizza that is literally topped with french fries. Whatever it is, I can't deny that a slice from Amato soaks up the booze and fuels my walk home just fine. And I think, for my part, that is the way our relationship will remain. Cordial but distant, until I decide I need to drunk dial Amato one more time.