Right now I'm sitting at a table in Sluggo's in Pensacola, Fl, which is probably my favorite rock club in the country. This afternoon we left our friend Travis' house in Gainesville and headed down the treacherous and deceptively long corridor of I-10 that separates Gville from Pcola. Perhaps it is just the decades of Florida Emo seeping in through the air vents in Meredith's van, but when I saw the acres of clear cut trees to the North, barely hidden by a line of forlorn looking shrubs, I started crying. Luckily the whole band was asleep so I managed to save my dignity, but it was certainly haggard times. But now I'm here at Sluggo's, where I feel really at home, eating a DELICIOUS vegan reuben (a nearly impossible feat), and I'm once again at peace with myself, if not with the sick fucking world. So in the spirit of harrowing emotional experiences with no real resolution, I'd like to tell you all about Sal Pizza.
When Willow, Chris and I approached Sal Pizza, the first thing I noticed was the pizzaola, who looked like a perfect cross between Super Mario and Phil Lynott, standing with his hands on his hips, proudly surveying his domain. Motherfucker looked like a grown up Sweathog, you got me? I was really looking forward to seeing what kind of pizza Juan Epstein makes, so I was totally thrilled until I saw the pithy offerings in the display case. But like I said an entry or two ago, sometimes a slice doesn't look appetizing until it hits the oven for the second time. So I was willing to give it a shot.
This slice was majorly underdone. And even if it hadn't been, it would've still been a horridly wet sloppy piece of shit with crappy, sugar-sweet sauce and bland crust. Whatever. Don't go to this place with Luzzo's around the corner.
1375 Madison Ave
New York, NY 10128