Matty B came over yesterday at 12:20 or so. Meredith was already here for band practice. So when Matty showed up and was all, "hey, I was in the neighborhood so I figured I'd stop by," I was like, "Wait, but Matt, we talked last night about having band practice today!" But the man was tired and had forgotten. Luckily he was biking past my house and was seized by a totally overwhelming desire to stop by and see me, because he loves me so much.
Anyway, band practice was superb. I've had all the songs stuck in my head since we started showing them to Meredith. After band practice me and Matty drank coffee till we were crazy and waited for my friend Cristy to show up, so we could all head up to 181st st and eat some pizza. She arrived promptly, we sat around and talked, then walked to the subway for the trek to Washington Heights. During the course of our lengthy subway ride we told stories about adolescent awkwardness, discussed Matty's new comic (topics: confrontations with yuppies, craigslist ripoffs, failed experiments in queer sexual practice), shared goofy makeout stories and just basically made too much noise and acted more gregariously than is fitting for public transit. Here's the thing, though, we couldn't help it. I seriously felt like I did as a teenager when I just wanted to talk really loud and fast about everything awesome, and so what if that church lady over there is offended when I talk about smooching boys, she'll get over it. In short, the three of us had an excellent hangout dynamic and that made shit awesome.
We accidentally took the train to 191st, because we were so busy talking we missed our stop, which was great, because we got to see the totally rad murals at the 191st St. I.R.T. station! When we got out it was lightly raining and pleasantly cool, so we didn't mind the ten block walk down to Rap Pizza:
In the process of getting to this shining oasis on the overcast corner of 181st and St. Nick, I almost walked in front of two cars, and almost dragged Matty and Cristy into traffic. I couldn't think, my mind was clouded by visions of pizza. Halfway across the street, not even on the sidewalk directly in front of the place, I was confronted by The Smell. The smell of pizza so good, no matter what I'm doing, who I'm with, or how full I am, it calls to me like a siren song and I will run across traffic, embarrass myself in front of a crush, push my way through gangs of street toughs, just to get a slice and eat it while I walk. The smell doesn't always accompany a perfect slice, but it never wafts from a bad slice.
After making sure none of the bunch had died or been wounded due to my irresponsible leadering, I went inside and ordered my slice. It was $2.50, which was a little bit of a disappointment. I had hoped Rap's slice would be $2.00 just because the place looked so damn great:
But such is life, right? While aesthetics are important, we are here for the pizza. My slice came and looked great:
The sauce on this slice was phenomenal. On the sweet side, but in a really subtle and excellent way. And the way the flavor of the sauce combined with the slightly sour taste of the cheese was incredible. Insert some kind of metaphor about beautiful celebrities having an orgy in my mouth, or something. The dough, though, was a little bit too floppy, and a little bit too floury tasting for me. I want to stress the phrase 'a little bit' in both of those criticisms. Because it really was by a hair. Basically, this is not a slice that's gonna make you shit your pants, but it is kind of like the prototypical, exceptional but not amazing, way above average street slice. A-.
This place would be a great element in a good cheap date. Imagine this: we take the train up to 191, walk through the rad tunnel, admiring the murals. Next we stroll around drinking surreptitious beers and make out on a bench in that park on 189th and Broadway. I am so clever and charming and I know so much about the city. Then we walk down to this adorable little hole in the wall, Rap Pizza, and get a slice, then go walk around on the George Washington Bridge for a while and like, spit in the river or something. Afterwards we head to this great dive bar I know, where you buy the first round, since I got the pizza. I'll ask for an expensive whiskey drink and then when it's my turn to buy a round, I'll get you a Coors Light despite the fact that you wanted a Tanqueray Greyhound. The entire time we're hanging out I'll talk incessantly about my band, and how big my blog is getting. I'll never ask about you, and whenever you figure out a way to get a couple words in, I'll find some reason to interrupt you and bring the conversation back to me again. For some reason, against your better judgment, you'll invite me back to your house. I'll hail us a cab that you'll end up paying for. When we get to your place, you'll excuse yourself for a minute and I'll start drinking any of your booze I can find. By the time we make out, I'll be so drunk I basically just slobber all over you and then fall asleep. In the morning, when I wake up, I'll tell you that I "don't think it's going to work out." In the future, if I ever see you out in public while I'm with my friends, I'll point at you and tell them we "totally did it." Sadly for all of you, dear readers, I've got a bit too much on my plate to date anyone right now. What with the band, this blog, really important political projects, and working two jobs, I've just got no time for romance. C'est la vie, it's the world's loss, not mine.
1422 Saint Nicholas Ave # 2
New York, NY 10033-4051