Dirty pizza, dirty place, dirty t-shirt
On my way in to the Mix tonight, I realized that I was starving and there was no way I’d be able to make it from 7 p.m.-12 a.m. without having something dinnerish.
In cutting over to Lake Shore Drive, I found myself at the intersection of Foster and Broadway–more specifically, at the threshold of Laurie’s Pizzeria. I’ve probably seen or driven by the place for most of my life, but have never once set foot inside or tried their pizza. The sign outside said “Pizza by the Slice.” That was all I needed.
I parked in right in front of the Foster entrance and walked into a sparse and filthy retail space which felt as welcoming as the pawnshop in “Pulp Fiction” (though Laurie’s seemed blissfully Gimp-free). The storefront is essentially a skid row liquor store with a convenience store rotisserie of who-knows-how-old-they-are-pizzas spinning under heating lamps. Rather than go with my gut instinct to run away and avoid botulism and/or a bullet, I did the next logical thing–I bought a slice of cheese and a Diet Coke.
The pizza was no better than the Tombstone I have tucked away in my home freezer. Worse, it was dripping with grease. Before I even made it to Lake Shore Drive, a mere three blocks east of Laurie’s, I’d already left a trail of unerasable grease spots down my t-shirt. In some karmic way, I was being made to answer for my fast food transgressions.
It’s 9:30 p.m. as I type this, and the “treasure trail” of grease defiantly remains on my person. I feel like a six-year old with a five o’clock shadow.