Pizzeria Zero

On Wednesday night, Alma and I went to this new-ish pizza place on Lincoln, between two of our more standard haunts (Matsu Shita for sushi, Boba Bee for bubble tea). The name of the place was Pizzeria Calzone. It turned out to be possibly the most uncomfortable restaurant experience of my life.

I went in thinking, you know, I might want a calzone tonight. But of all the things on the menu, calzones? Not one of them. That's right: calzone was in the name of the restaurant, yet it was not something you could order there. Maybe this should have been a warning sign, but at the time it was just amusing.

We were the only people in the place, which seems less odd in retrospect. The waitress was a girl who couldn't have been older than about 14 and did the job as if running through a script in her head. Perhaps the regular waitress called in sick and the owners' daughter was pressed into service, I don't know - but if this girl had ever waited a table before in her life, it didn't show. Also, when we asked for water, she brought over two bottles (for which of course we would be charged). That one, I don't know if it was inexperience as much as "thing she had been told to do."

Still, at this point, it was just kind of "eh." And then some guy walked in off the street and started trying to sell the owner some jewelry.

What?

That's right. This guy just walks in and is trying to sell them on this gold something or other. He keeps saying, "It's real gold" and trying to sell it for 50, then 30, then 20 bucks; at some point I heard the owner offer five, at which the guy scoffed. What could possibly be more awkward than listening to some hustler haggle with the owner of the restaurant you're in, not ten feet away?

How about the next part, when I see out of the corner of my eye the waitress nod in our direction and say to the guy, "Ask them?"

Yes, this actually happened. Now you know for a fact that this family had never owned a restaurant in America before. Or at least, if they did, no one like this ever walked into it. Because I can't imagine any restaurant with the reputation of pawning shady jewelry sellers off onto its customers would stay in business any longer than about a week after the first time it happened.

Of course the guy was over shortly thereafter, greeting us with that calling card of guys you don't want to have anything to deal with, "My friends!" Needless to say, we quickly waved him off. But Jesus Christ. The word "unprofessional" seems so imprecise here, since this was clearly a small family business, but how about "completely retarded?" As Alma put it to me a couple minutes later, "We're still in Chicago, right?" (We were.)

I started looking for quick ways out not long after that. The whole place was kind of giving me a weird vibe from minute one, and having to fend off the advances of a total con artist wasn't too appetizing. I ate half the pizza I'd ordered - enough, I figured, where I could then ask for a box and not look like I was trying to flee the premises - and we hit the road.

Ironically, my pizza (fresh from the oven) was actually pretty darn good; I was a particular fan of the crust. Barely seemed worth it, though. I suppose I could order delivery if I ever wanted it again, but then I don't feel compelled to support that kind of operation. Once felt sufficient.