Clareified

My flight instinct has been super heightened lately. Things have been super hectic and draining around these parts and for the girl whose answer to all of life’s problems is “shhh…let us never speak of it again,” I’ve decided I just need to pack my bags and start over somewhere else. Somewhere warm. Heck, I’ve already got my new name all picked.
The crazier half of my other blog tried to convince me to take an end of week poker adventure to AC.
Nah, been there done that.
“How about we fly to Tunica, though?”
Unfortunately, there are apparently no flights to Tunica from New York.
“New Orleans?”
Nope. No flights to there either.
Dude.
There was some brief entertaining of driving 17 hours to Tunica, but I just know about seven hours in, somebody was getting fed into a woodchipper.
Just sayin.
So, my big adventure turned into going from Manhattan to Brooklyn.
Now, you laugh…but I had to go all the way to the Upper East Side…and you never know when you’ll be accosted by an armed gunman in those parts.
Scary!
We called a cab and were half way to the highway when my cellphone started ringing.
I looked at Karol sitting on the other side of the backseat.
“Umm…idjit, why are you calling me?”
Then I noticed she didn’t have a phone in her hand or anything.
Ohhh. I answer.
“Hi. Peter. Yes…yes…it looks like doofus did leave her phone at home…”
SO, we drive back to gun zone to get it.
The cab driver looks like he wants to kill us.
I take this opportunity to inch closer to my door and unlock it…just.in.case.
We get to Brooklyn in one piece, placate the beast with a huge tip and head upstairs.
“I’m hungry.”
“Me too.”
“DiFara’s?”
“Ooh, ok!”
I had tried (unsuccessfully) to go to the best pizza place in the world twice in the past week and was jonesing.
Of course, by the time we got there, the line was too long.
Karol then suggests we try a new place.
“Hey! I’ve had this note on my phone to try Franny’s. It’s on Flatbush…let’s go! Can you imagine if we find a new pizza place in Brooklyn?”
I agree…although I am a bit worried about finding Flatbush. Just two days earlier, Fisch and I spent fourteen hours driving around Brooklyn looking for the elusive avenue, with little more than “wait…we’re still in Brooklyn, though…right?” for guidance.
Not good.
Thankfully, Flatbush revealed itself right away. Unfortunately, Franny’s was all the way North. We drove and drove and drove…then there was a navigational mishap.
“Ok, just go around this circle and we’ll be back on the right track.”
Then there was a conductor mishap.
“DUDE! I said go around the circle! How is this a circle?”
But finally. Finally. We made it to Franny’s.
We walked up the block and stood facing a huge tinted glass window.
“Uh…this place is totally gay and it’s closed.”
I then saw a woman sitting at the bar.
“Oh…nevermind…it’s just totally gay.”
We walk inside and shake our way through the doorway which is encased in black velvet curtains.
That’s. Right.
The waitress seats us next to the only other black person in the place and Karol comments that this is whitest restaurant she’s ever been in.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
Then we get the menu.
A fourteen inch parchment, dated “January 18, 2007″ in cursive black letterrs inform us that pizza with no sauce costs $8, with sauce it’s $14. Adjectives like “hand picked” “organic” and “fresh” abound.
And then.
“Hey, check out the philosophy on the back,” Karol says suppressing laughter.
“Dude. I don’t eat pizza with philosophies…where the hell did you bring me!!!!”
Sure enough, they promise that our pizza will be free range, commune produced hippie rolled blandness from independent farmers.
Awesome.
But fine. Pizza is pizza.
The waitress then explains that these $14 pies with sauce are six inch individual pies for one.
WHAT??? $28 in pizza????

Grrr.
Fine.
“I’d like a pepperoni please.”
“Well, we don’t do pepperoni. We have house-made sausage. It’s thinly sliced and made from fresh ingredients on the premises.”
I stare at her blankly.
“It’s like pepperoni.”
Really? Now is it like pepperoni? Well, how about at the end of the meal, I leave you an IOU note. Cause, you know, that’s like legal tender.
I am not a happy camper.
Karol orders a regular sauce pizza and tells the waitress we’ll share it.
Minutes later a bread plate with barely leveaned bread and sauce with some cheese pieces is brought to us.
“GUY! It’s NAAN bread! And cheese!”
I eat a quarter of it and choke it down with ou Forty-dollar bottle of “sparkling water.”
I bitterly wipe my mouth with our cloth napkins.

“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS????? WE GREW UP IN BROOKLYN!!! HOW’D THEY TRICK US INTO PAYING $90 for pizza and water??????”
Karol is laughing nonstop.
I am ranting nonstop.
“YOU KNOW…PLACES LIKE THAT IS WHY THEY INVENTED THE WORD SHEEPLE.”
“It gets really good ratings!”
“Yeah, well, when I get home I am googling that place and adding the word sheeple to every review. Franny’s will be the number one result for Sheeple.”
Jeezaloo.
Pizza costs $2 people! TWO DOLLARS. And pizza places don’t have theater curtains!! “Ooh, is it a stage or the entrance? I’m a superstar!”
We drive back across the park and vow never to go that North into Brooklyn again. We ended up at L&B Spumoni, where I had the first edible square from that place. Apparently, you have to get a piece right out of the oven, in the middle of the pie and eat it right away.
Or maybe it’s just because after Franny’s anything above cardboard would be tasty.

This entry was posted by Dawn Summers on Sunday, January 21st, 2007 at 3:21 am and is filed under Personal. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.