Friday, July 23, 2010

We, The Pizza

Everywhere I turn there is a temptation to challenge my quest to make sure that my shrinking clothes don't get any tighter. Tonight's opponent: We, The Pizza.

Yeah, sure the newest restaurant venture from that guy who was on one of those chef shows that I never saw, is all about oneness and equality...and yeah, I went by there, thus I set myself up, so it wasn't exactly a fair fight.

I'd heard that there was supposed to be a soft opening yesterday, so after postponing plans with a friend, I thought I'd stop by, grab a slice and go home. When I got there, people were outside eating pizza and the door was locked. But those who were eating were kind enough to tell me and a few others who were puzzled that Chef Spike (Mendelsohn, of Top Chef fame) was opening the door to let people in a few at a time and that everything--pizza, pop and beer was FREE. That was all I needed to hear.

I was tired and hungry, so I didn't think to take any photos and all I have is that lame clip art pizza slice. Some people took photos with Chef Spike, but that didn't interest me.

I tried the Sicilian and the Roasted Potato Pancetta, along with freshly made "I Love You Long Time Lemon Lime" soda that had real fruit slices and basil in it. When I asked for mint, the soda jerk (who was quite friendly) explained that this one called for basil and then went on to tell me about how great it was that they made the sodas right there and they could make all kinds of unique flavors (so why'd he nix my mint?!) That aside, he did a great job practicing his fresh-made soda sales pitch on me, even making mention of Spike's other restaurant (Good Stuff Eatery).

Metal pizza pans in varying sizes adorned the one of the walls, along with stylized photos, including one of a DC soup kitchen.

On my way out I thanked Chef Spike himself and he asked if I'd liked it. I told him the Roasted Potato Pancetta was amazing, but that the Sicilian was not so great. He said they didn't have any Sicilian. I described and then pointed to it. That jogged his memory. He explained that he thought the round pies were perfect, but that the other ones he hadn't quite mastered and that Sicilian is an art in itself. He didn't even seem boastful in his claim about the round pies and seemed genuinely frustrated about the Sicilian. Being an artisan of any kind does require at least a dash of perfectionism.

"You're doing better than me," I said.

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