Leftovers

I hate to admit it, but I'm about pizza-d out. After two nights of Chicago-style deep dish, I had plans to meet up for lunch with Lars Vargas yesterday. As I was leaving the house to go hit the ATM and fill up the gas tank, I gave him a call.

I'll be there a few minutes after noon, he said.

I agreed on the time, said that I'd see him there, and just before I hung up, we both realized that while we agreed to meet for lunch, and never once in the past couple of weeks did we ever mention the name of the restaurant. I guess we just take it for granted that meeting for lunch means going to Grimaldi's!

The bad thing was, there were still two pieces of the home-made pizza sitting on the counter staring at me with that come-hither look. Unfortunately, I had to pass, opting for a date with their more-sophisticated east-coast cousins. In fact, those last two sliced probably won't even get eaten...

Anyhow, after hitting the ATM, gas station, and giving my truck the worst six-dollar car wash in the history of automotive cleanliness, I found myself pulling into the parking lot at my favorite restaurant. I also noticed that Lars' "police cruiser" was already there.

We didn't waste any time perusing the menu, and the waitress was already there at the table waiting for me. We broke all of the rules, ordering two 18-inch pizzas (which I said I wouldn't do again), and we also ignored the two-topping commandment that is part of my as-yet-unwritten Pizza Manifesto. On one pie we got meatball, sun-dried tomato, and onion, and on the other pie we went classic and got pepperoni, Italian sausage, and mushroom.

Of course they were still fantastic, but we realized that the B-team was working the kitchen that day (one of the pies got a little too charred on one side). We also realized that two meats equals too much grease, and sun-dried tomatoes and onions on the same pizza imparts a little too much sweetness. But that didn't stop us from our feeding frenzy. Nothing went to waste, even though we had some leftovers to take with us.

And, while we were eating, I had another only-in-Vegas moment, as somebody walked up and asked me--wait for it--Hey, are you Hurricane Mikey?

That hasn't happened in months.

It was reader Phil ("Big Mo") from someplace in Ohio, saying he's been a reader for quite awhile and was visiting Grimaldi's on my recommendation. And he just happened to stumble upon me in my native habitat--and I just happened to be wearing my Hurricane Mikey t-shirt for the first time in about a month, so between that, Lars' Hawaiian shirt, and the two huge pizzas on our table, we stood out like a couple of chubby sore thumbs. But we had a nice visit for a few minutes, but then we got back to the task at hand, which was shoving as much pizza into my pie-hole as I could before it got cold. (The pizza, not the pie-hole).

Three slices made their way home with me, and late last night after work, it was nice to come home and crack open an ice-cold bottle of IBC, put my feet up, and munch on the leftovers.

The last of the Chicago style is probably headed for the garbage can, though. I'm really just in the mood for peanut butter and jelly right now.

Mikey