The Day the Pizza Died

When Jaimi has a hankering for pizza, there’s no stopping her – except when intergalactic forces of profound evil conspire against her.

I think that’s what happened last night.

Usually, I just go along for the ride. Pizza? Great. Greek food? Sounds good to me. Sushi? Let’s do it. So when I got the call to go grab some pizza at our new neighborhood joint, I was game.

It’s called Ignazio’s - “Nazi’s”, plus an awfully fortuitous “Ig” and “o” at either end, for those looking for help with pronunciation. They’re mainly an upscale pizza joint, but also feature a few appetizers, salads, etc. Right around the corner from Grimaldi’s, in Dumbo, Brooklyn.

We went for the pizza, natch.

As we approached the newly opened restaurant, we could see steam on the windows, and a lively crowd filled most of the tables. As we entered, I got a good vibe – plenty of waitstaff, and seemingly satisfied customers surrounded us.

We were seated promptly, and told that this was Ignazio’s “soft opening” for friends and neighbors only. They’d be opening to the general public soon, but if we had any comments PLEASE let them know. We proceeded to peruse the menu for several minutes, and had set our minds on the standard pizza. It looked great.

Our hopes would soon be dashed on the rocks of despair, like a ball of fresh mozzarella tossed from the Brooklyn Bridge, which looms over Ignazio’s like a….well, like a big-ass bridge overhead.

The waitress returned and told us, sorry but we ran out of pizza. Being that it was April 1st, I immediately called her out. “April Fool’s!” I shouted, like a mentally challenged 5th grader.

But it was no trick. They had underestimated the local response and hadn’t ordered nearly enough pizza ingredients to satisfy the demand. It was only 8:30 on Wednesday evening. Seems like the stock room manager, or ingredients-ordering person had fucked up royally.

Disappointed? Yes, very much so. We felt as if there was a pizza party going on, and we were being asked to leave for some unspoken reason. “Sorry, we don’t allow lactose-intolerants in here,” her eyes seemed to say.

Anyway, the waitress was very gracious and apologetic, offering free drinks for our trouble. But it wasn’t good enough – Jaimi still wanted pizza and was even hungrier than before. So we decided to head up the road to Grimaldi’s.

We were at the door within 3 minutes, and were happily greeted by a throng of empty tables. The place was practically vacant. Of course, it was too good to be true.

I quickly noticed that the coal-fired pizza oven was as dark and cold as the rain-soaked sky. One of the employees came over to us and said “Sorry, we’re having a problem with our oven. No pizza tonight.” It’s probably never happened before and will never happen again.

Wow. We just got backhanded bitch-slapped by two pizza places in a row. Astounded and dazed, we stumbled back onto the slick sidewalk. I was ready to cry – but not so much for myself. I could have cried for hungry Jaimi, and for all the other pizza lovers who must have been shunned last night.

It was a confluence of once-in-a-lifetime pizza disasters. And then, on our way home, we saw that the one other pizza place in the neighborhood was closed. It was only 8:45.

So we ordered Chinese food and watched ‘Lost.’

All in all, things ended just fine. But I’ll never forget the day the pizza died.

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