food. according to me.

Crap, according to me. (part I)

I'd like to think that I am markedly understanding, compassionate, and forgiving person in general. When it comes to evaluating food and service, too, I always make an effort to begin with a positive mindset before I examine things with my critic's eye. I suppose it comes from having spent a fair amount of time on the other side of the kitchen, the table, the bar. I understand what the too-common shortages of time, ingredients, space, and staff can do to an otherwise competent operation. Even if an eating experience is not spectacular, it can still be quite passable, even enjoyable. There are lots of shades of gray and, for the most part, I am happy to find the highlight of a dinner, rather than cite all of my disappointments.

Occasionally, however, I stumble upon an eatery that I feel compelled to rant about. One such recent trainwreck of a meal was from Pizza A Go Go on N. Williams Avenue.

When I tell people that I had a disappointing pie from Pizza A Go Go, further stating that my allegiance in neighborhood pizzerias is henceforth firmly planted with the Mississippi Pizza Pub, the only response I've heard has been "well, at least they deliver." That's right, not a single person has come to the defense of A Go Go with anything more convincing than their after-four delivery service. Indeed, it is a draw. On the very day that the Squeeze and I had out pie from A Go Go, our first priority was to set on a meal that someone would bring to the house. That it was a new place that neither of us had eaten at was an extra-special bonus. That is was pizza was inconsequential. What I mean to convey here, is that I did not head out into the world on one chirpy spring day looking for culinary delight. I was merely home on a weekday afternoon, too busy to cook for myself and desperately hungry. To disappoint when the standards are set so low is quite an accomplishment, I'd say.

Strike one: While the website hawks their delivery service, nowhere does it say "but only after four p.m." Then again, their website also states that they make the "Freshiest, tastiest, kickiest combos around." I should have known. I would have been much happier making this discovery in print, before I called to place my order. When the polite young man apologized for not being able to deliver my pie, I was unable to admit that my choice of eateries was based wholly around my own laziness, not a desire to eat one of their "kickiest" pizzas.

Strike two: We picked up the pizza twenty-five-to-thirty minutes after placing the order, as instructed. The shop - small and hip and attractive on the corner of N. Williams and N. Cook - smelled incredible. As soon as I stepped through the door, I felt relief, assurance. We were in for a treat, I was certain, if the pizza shack smelled so good. The perfect pizza triad of tomato, garlic and oregano wafted into my expectant nostrils. The pie was sitting on top of the oven when we arrived. The transaction was smooth, speedy and satisfactory, inasmuch as paying twenty-two bucks for a pizza can be. When we got outside and lifted the cardboard lid I noticed the cheese had begun to congeal. This is something that happens, as we all know, when melted cheese begins to cool once it's been brought out of the oven, boxed, sliced, and set to rest for the customer. This is why I make it a point to be as prompt as possible according to the readiness instructions I am given over the phone. So, the pie had been kept waiting, languishing, dying.

Strike Three: It tasted awful. This, really, is what it's all about. The rest of my complaints are just straws, small annoyances that only serve to highlight this one unforgivable problem. The pizza was bad. The toppings were wrong. Not incorrect per my order, but just so badly done. The red onion was sliced so thin that, once surrounded by cheese (too much) and baked, they disappeared both in texture and in flavor. The cheese, as I mentioned, was too thick, and too cool by the time it got to us. And, I swear, the "parmesan" that came already sprinkled over the pie had to have been shaken out of a green cardboard canister. The "herbed chicken breast" was neither herbed, nor was it breast. It was unseasoned chicken meat, full of tendons and globules of fat. Futhermore, it was dried out and stringy and, it seemed to me, old. The crust, underbaked and flat, had a texture suggestive of partially-dried white glue. It was thin, but not crisp on the bottom and did not rise at all underneath the avalanche of cheese and soupçon of chicken, onions, and garlic paste.

We ate it, because we were hungry and we'd paid twenty-two dollars for it. But next time - I don't care if they deliver - I am going elsewhere. In fact, I'd rather just be hungry than gnaw on another pizza a go-go.