just now
On this day, Saturday March 5th @ ≈ 7:00pm I walked into this establishment @ my Wife's behest after she ordered 2 pizzas. Upon entering, I was met by a boy slicing some pizza (mind you, with some difficulty). This, however, can be understood. I too have struggled with cutting through what often is a thick crust after making homemade pizza. Lacking the prowess of many seasoned pizza assemblers (the professionals)
I sometimes make the crust of the pizza too thick. This results in overexertion while only achieving paltry results. If you've read this far & are wondering: "Where in the name of the Lord Almighty did it all go wrong?", it began when I tried to pay for the pizza. Meet cash. Cold, hard, polymer Canadian notes in various denominations. The boy, when presented with it, appeared to be dumbfounded, dare I say mesmerized by my supposed act of violence of presenting cash to him to cover the cost of their product. The boy, confused & seemingly under duress, said something which (after much reflection) was inaudible & carried no meaning in English. Only by his non-verbal cues was I able to surmise that he was to request assistance from a fellow aid. He went behind the service counter, & another figure appeared. My view of them was blocked by a shelf, revealing only their faces from the nose down. Both of them murmured to each other quietly, so as not to make it plain to me that they were in a pickle. It was as if they were trying to decipher or make sense of J. Robert Oppenheimer's research papers on the atomic bomb. After some deliberation, the boy looked @ me & said it would just be 1 minute. “What exactly would be a minute?” I thought in my mind. The pizzas were already on the counter. They were ready for me to take home to my wife. Now, I was in no way impatient, or even slightly bothered by what was transpiring before me. In a world where instant gratification dominates our culture, & expectations of immediacy are at every turn, I was prepared to wait without qualms. Patience is indeed a virtue, William Langland. Then, as quickly as I created the panic in the boy, he proceeded to gesture at the cash in my hand & said “Okay”. He was now ready to accept my cash as payment. The $34.44 order was about to close. He took the $. Then, I made for the exit & went home. I brought the za's to the kitchen. Both were correct in that they were what my wife had ordered, but they weren't actually what my wife had ordered at all. We expected a fully cooked pizza, with properly portioned toppings & a cooked through crust. It wasn't so. The brand whose jingle has lived rent free in my mind for decades, albeit, for eternity, in seconds lost all credibility. Upon 1st inspection of the za, towered high with toppings (which to some may appear desirable) was a clear tell that it would be undercooked. Sure enough, the dough appeared to have been only zapped by a source of heat - some define a zap as the total duration of time from which a viewer changes a television channel using a remote control to the point that the picture of the new channel is displayed. You'd assume that there'd be some formula to ensure that a pizza that has entered their oven would exit appropriately (heat x time x za, perhaps?) Maybe I'm asking too much. Or maybe attention to detail has become a lost art form in exchange for profits and corporate greed. Or, maybe it’s just because some youngsters couldn't bear the burden of providing a good pie. Oh yeah, I also saw not 1, but 2 Pizza Pizza boxes inside the very warmer that my New Orleans Pizza was doing porridge in. Why? Were these youngsters, at the invocation of their evil overlords, tasked with uncovering the trade secrets of what makes Pizza Pizza pizza the kind of pizza that people want to pizza... buy? I hope this review leaves you with many questions & fills your mind with wonder about the happenings behind the counters of New Orleans Pizza in Fergus. If the managers dare brave the open waters of this long winded novel: check yer dough.
Sincerely,
Your Unhappy...
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