3 Stars

Written by Pistol Pete Saturday, 09 May 2009 00:00

Last night we went to a pizza parlor called 'The Hideaway'. I had been wanting to go to a sitdown pizza place for some time instead of ordering out. It's in an upscale, trendy area of restaurants and over-priced boutiques that rich bitches in ugly shoes shop in along a short stretch called Cherry Street (actually 15th Street). We found a parking space behind the tiny alotments that were originally built as other businesses in the 1930s and headed inside. I told my son to body block two women who were heading for the door but, we beat them to it. If you don't have a reservation there is a waiting period. Our's was a mere 15 minutes, which was good because the acid I saved from 1969 was starting to kick in. They have seating inside the regular building and an encloseable patio. We were taken to the patio, which was fine because the temperature outside was good. I had told our son that if we got the patio and it started raining we would beat him up because he said we would take whatever comes first. After we sat down, it started raining. But, we let it slide because no tornadoes came through and I would have to pay for his medical out of my pocket. The fact that no tornadoes arrived, and the floor tiles were telling me an intriguing sea story, I continued to stare at the waitress' butt. I think it was talking to me.

We ordered fried mushrooms (I think they had red spots) and a large half-n-half pizza. One side had lots of meat with Italian herbs, olives, tomatoes and cheeze, while the other half was gay veggie. I'm guessing the cheeze on the veggie side was a lab concoction and would not dare be from a cow. Well, maybe a French cow. When bitten and pulled by my son (not gay), it reminded me of the viscous, spotted membrane in the Alien pods when they hatched. The food was really good and the beer schooners were plenty large. Being the sophisticated man I am, I used a straw to drink mine. All three of us ordered beer but we were served water before the beer came. I think they do that just to charge you a buck for a lemon slice. I hate raw lemons.

Earlier, as we were sitting there waiting to be waited on, the various cacaphony of conversations filled the space. I heard one guy tell a waitress, "I'll have a small Caesar". My mind immediately kicked into gear with visions of Warner Brothers: The waitress comes back to their table carrying a tray with food. She addresses the man with, "Small Caesar?" He complies and she steps aside to reveal a 4-foot Caligula who was walking directly behind her. Red faced, he screams territorial demands and infadelity with his horse in Latin to the man as the other wide-eyed patrons start heading quickly for the door. And that was before they brought our beer, so I can't blame it on the suds. Maybe the past experimentations have caught up with me. Or, maybe it was those slapstick cartoons I was raised on. Whichever, I wouldn't trade them for anything. Vesci me.