It was Saturday night, there was no food in the house, and we were hungry. Sounds like the making of a take-out dinner…
We had Mexican for lunch, which was delicious. We tried this place called Atotonilco’s, which had a wonderful Chorizo torta. They use this real flat cripsy bread to make it, and some very good quality meat. The whole meal with drinks cost us about nine dollars. I wasn’t really paying attention, and am used to spending more. So I left a five-dollar bill on the table for a tip.
Upon walking out of the place, Zai says, “I think they’ll be very suprised. From what I seen in there, doesn’t look like its customary to leave a tip. No one else was.”
“In MY country, we leave tips when we eat at a restaraunt,” I said. We had a waiter who took our orders and brought us food in a timely manner. That’s a tip, in my book. At this time I looked at my receipt and realized I left a sixty percent tip.
Ah well. I make enough.
But I digress. Dinner.
Across the street from my apartment is a little pizzaria called ‘The Chicago Pumping Station.’ Its quite obvious from looking at it that the place had been around there for decades, back when the buildings were fancy, and so were the signs. The tankard-sign had seen better days, but there it was. We decided to pick up a pizza, it WAS within walking distance.
It was strange inside. The walls were barren, and the room was dim, and it smelled like smoke. Some spanish music played from the jukebox, and a few people sat at the bar. It felt strange stepping in. I knew that everyone there was a regular, I was the new face. AND, I did not speak their language.
As I should have expected, everyone there was hispanic. It was odd to be the only Italian in the pizza-place, but we made our way to the counter and ordered a medium Hawaiian pizza. There was a broken Ms. Pac-Man machine by the counter, which amused me to no end.
For those that don’t know, a single old arcade game by the ordering counter is a staple of the classic pizzeria, even if it was broken. The mural on the side depicting Ms. Pac-Man being chased by a ghost was strange in and of itself. The shadowing on the ghost really made it seem like a balding man with a moustache. Whether this was the original mural, or doctored up by some kid, I have no idea.
While we were waiting for our pizza, I notice a lady at the bar grating cheese. After awhile, she stands up and takes a cutting board loaded with fresh mozerella cheese to the kitchen. I’ve spotted enough kitchens in more high-class places and saw they all got their cheese from giant plastic bags. But here in this tiny place I’m sure many would call a dive, there was fresh-grated mozzerella. I saw her walk back to the kitchen (which was easily visible through the large pick-up window), and grab another pile of cheese blocks.
At one point, an old man who was obviously soused ambled up to the jukebox, and played some music. There was apparently a volume control there and he blasted some Mexican ballad, singing along with the lyrics. I would have been annoyed, but there was just something…. I dunno, about it, maybe because he was just some happy drunk enjoying himself in a bar.
After that, he and who I assume is his wife slow-danced on the floor to the next song. It was endearing, really.
The place looks run-down at first glance, but as your eyes adjust, you can see that the tables and chairs are in great condition, and the floors clean. I spent some time staring into the kitchen, and it was as clean as I’ve ever seen a restaraunt kitchen.
It took forty minutes (which is acceptable, good pizza SHOULD take awhile), but we left with a hot pizza that only cost twelve dollars. On top of that, the medium pizza looked like it was plenty of food for the both of us.
We got it home and began to eat. Generous toppings, decent crust, and without a doubt the best cheese on a pizza I’ve ever had. Very stingy with the sauce, though. All in all, it was a very good pizza, which is pleasantly surprising.
So, yeah, good food sometimes in the most unlikely of places!
Zel-kun out.
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