Every neighbourhood likes to have things to call their own. Like a watering-hole for a casual 5 à 7, maybe a boutique specializing in incense and dream-catchers or even the dep that sells loosies and wine coolers to under age kids. But most importantly, any neighbourhood worth their weight in pot-hole fodder has a local pizza joint. I recently hit up a local pizza place – Bacaro Urban Pizzeria for some delicious traditional thin-crust pies.
If you’ve been following me on Twitter lately, you would have noticed the influx of my tweets bitching about how I wanted pizza; and even by that I wouldn’t say it was bitching, more than it was a deep yearning that bordered on obsessive and annoying. Like a 5 month old wants a boob when he or she is hungry; the shrill cry of the animalistic response taking over its little body, screaming and shaking and turning red until the soothing comfort of a mother’s milker touches his or her’s lips… now picture that, but instead of that, picture me slamming the keys on my laptop making sure people know how badly I want pizza… thick crust, thin crust, stuffed crust, pepperoni, sausage, bacon, arugula, anchovies, fucking pineapples, I wanted it all, I.needed.it.all.