Shrink in the Kitchen

I don’t know what I was thinking.

Hungry after my daily three mile run, I went with my daughter to Boston’s North End.  A short wait under powerful heat lamps and we were inside Pizzeria Regina.

I’ve been going to Pizzeria Regina since I was a tadpole.  It’s not great pizza, but it’s pretty good, a cut above, and certainly in the top tier of Boston pizza.  The only places better here are Galleria Umberto, which in fact is world-class, Santarpio’s, which is in the cut above category; and, slices sold at Iggy’s bakery, as take-out, which are wonderful Serbian interpretations of pizza: Thin, square, and more like a bread item than pizza, per se.

None of these are from coal-fired ovens.

I’ve been to Grimaldi’s.  I’ve been to Sally’s, Pepe’s, and the Modern.  I’ve been to Lombardi’s.  Pizzeria Regina isn’t close to any of these.

What Regina’s has in its favor are freshly made, thin crusts.  The sauce is OK.  The meats are OK.  The paper plates are silly.  The service is great.  The room is terrific.

Anyway, I was hungry, ate too much, and will need to fast today to try and regain my amplitude.

My daughter skipped dinner.  We’ve both been consuming antacids like bunnies eating lettuce leaves.

I mean, who in their right mind eats two slices (total) of a half sausage and half meatball pizza?

What was I thinking?

And why is this man smiling?