I’m afraid that I have a very uncouth story to relate. An incident which makes us all stop, drop, and wonder about whether we do, in actual fact, live in a first world country.
We’re in Boise at the moment, the shining capital city of our great state, visiting Granny. And the hands-down best pizza in town is to be found at the Flying Pie Pizzeria. It’s crazy good pizza, and no trip to Boise is complete without at least one stop there. Flying Pie is a bit of a Boise legend, and is basically unchanged since my husband used to hang out there in highschool (lo, these many moons ago.)
While they make great pizza at the Flying Pie, it’s also an undisputed fact that the place is gungy and weird. It’s got a very “independantly-owned-bowling-alley-from the eighties” feel about it . . . the kind of bowling alley where the owner lived in a trailer out back. Strange decorations abound in the dimly lit interior – decorations like a giant wad of tinfoil the size of a dishwasher. There’s also a homely little mannequin in a motorcycle helmet who presides over the counter where you place your order. All the employees are sportily tattoed, and I’m fairly certain that you must be able to prove a certain amount of ink in order to even get an interview.
So. There we were. Sitting out back on the deck in broken plastic chairs, waiting for our pizza. There were ants on the table, along with a number of mysterious sticky bits. But that’s ok. We’re big kids. We can take a few smooths with the rough. The part that was starting to get us down was how long the pizza was taking. It was a crazy weekend though, and the place was packed, so we waited an extra long time before Ben went up to check on the progress of our pizza. We were told it was coming in two minutes . . . and we began to idly speculate on how long the two minutes would take. Knox set the timer on his watch so we could see who was right.
Strangely, the waiter arrived with the pizza nearly immediately. Knox wasn’t even done setting the timer. Our two gorgeous pizzas were plunked down, and our waiter and his tattoes retired back into the restaurant. We began to dish up the slices, when we realized that the pepperoni pizza didn’t seem to have any pepperoni on it. It looked like plain cheese. I sort of peeled the cheese up to find out if there was any pepperoni lurking there underneath, but there wasn’t. The combination pizza looked good however, so I dished up a lot of those slices while Ben went back inside to find out about the missing pepperoni. Judah picked an olive off my piece and ate it. After a few minutes we decided that no matter what happened with the pepperoni pizza, I might as well dish up the rest of the cheese slices . . . it’s not like the kitchen would take it back after it had been left on our table and fiddled with.
But just then a cheerfully tattooed waitress came dashing out the door, with Ben in her wake, yelling at us to not take a bite! These weren’t our pizzas. They belonged to another table – and she had the correct ones with her. She said, rather breathlessly, “You haven’t taken a bite yet have you?!”
Well . . . not exactly. But we had dished them all up and picked at the cheese and Judah had eaten an olive. “Oh that’s ok then” she said, “just put them all back on the pan. They’ll never know.”
I was totally incredulous. I tried to tell her that we had very definitely touched these pizza slices. She absolutely didn’t care. We took all the slices back off our plates, put them back in the pan, leaving various sausage bits and peppers behind . . . but for the most part they were all reassembled. The cheese slice that I had investigated was looking a little saggy and unfortunate, and they were rather disheveled pizzas, but she really didn’t mind at all. She deposited the new correct pizzas on our table, and toodled off with our old ones to deliver them to the poor unlucky and unsuspecting recipients.
Seriously. She did. I felt very guilty and like I owed someone an apology. So here it is – whoever you are out there . . . “I’m really sorry that we touched your pizza and picked some of the toppings off before you ate it! My husband isn’t, but I am! I’m fairly certain that we didn’t sneeze on it, but I can’t be sure! Hopefully you didn’t suffer any unfortunate repercussions (or rashes) from that little misunderstanding! When you bring your lawsuit, please don’t include us!”