Where were we? Yes, right, eating the best pizza in existence. Well, not quite. We had to order it first.
The young woman in charge (short black hair, multiple piercings, flour-covered...everything) tore herself away from feeding wood into the brick oven, slapped her hands down on the counter, and glared at Sherlock. "Whaddya want?" she said.
I suspect it might've sent more delicate children off crying, but this was Sherlock. "Large with olives and anchovies and pineapple and sausage and I wanna Coke too."
I was going to say no to the Coke, but she got her, "No," in before mine, and not in reference to his beverage choice. "That's not a pizza, that's an abomination."
"Why?" Sherlock said. (Restrained, for him, especially when someone's just told him no.)
There followed a lecture on the structure of pizza that compared favorably to some entire courses I took in medical school in terms of conveying both depth and breadth of subject matter. I won't attempt to reproduce it here; I wouldn't do it justice. Sherlock and Mycroft both quizzed her extensively about yeast. I'm fairly certain she gave them enough information to write a dissertation each.
We were eventually allowed to order - one topping per pizza only, plus cheese and sauce. Suits me fine, as all I generally want is cheese anyway, though I'm unsure how wise it is to tell your customers what they can and can't eat. Mycroft was all right with it (more interested in rare Egyptian yeast strains by that point; watch out, he's threatening a guest blog on this topic), but Sherlock nearly had a meltdown, especially after I got the chance to add that there would be no Coke either.
But, and this is key, he didn't. I had to take him aside and talk to him for a bit, but he pulled himself together. That's a first, and I'm so proud.
Professor Pizza (I ought to have got her her name, but I didn't) let us sit in the kitchen to eat, as the place has no tables and we weren't eager to go back out into the rain. She sent us home with dough and madly specific instructions on what to do with it. I don't like to think what she might do to us if we get it wrong.
In other, completely random, news, here is a picture of my last spinach salad. It looks a lot better than the first one.
The young woman in charge (short black hair, multiple piercings, flour-covered...everything) tore herself away from feeding wood into the brick oven, slapped her hands down on the counter, and glared at Sherlock. "Whaddya want?" she said.
I suspect it might've sent more delicate children off crying, but this was Sherlock. "Large with olives and anchovies and pineapple and sausage and I wanna Coke too."
I was going to say no to the Coke, but she got her, "No," in before mine, and not in reference to his beverage choice. "That's not a pizza, that's an abomination."
"Why?" Sherlock said. (Restrained, for him, especially when someone's just told him no.)
There followed a lecture on the structure of pizza that compared favorably to some entire courses I took in medical school in terms of conveying both depth and breadth of subject matter. I won't attempt to reproduce it here; I wouldn't do it justice. Sherlock and Mycroft both quizzed her extensively about yeast. I'm fairly certain she gave them enough information to write a dissertation each.
We were eventually allowed to order - one topping per pizza only, plus cheese and sauce. Suits me fine, as all I generally want is cheese anyway, though I'm unsure how wise it is to tell your customers what they can and can't eat. Mycroft was all right with it (more interested in rare Egyptian yeast strains by that point; watch out, he's threatening a guest blog on this topic), but Sherlock nearly had a meltdown, especially after I got the chance to add that there would be no Coke either.
But, and this is key, he didn't. I had to take him aside and talk to him for a bit, but he pulled himself together. That's a first, and I'm so proud.
Professor Pizza (I ought to have got her her name, but I didn't) let us sit in the kitchen to eat, as the place has no tables and we weren't eager to go back out into the rain. She sent us home with dough and madly specific instructions on what to do with it. I don't like to think what she might do to us if we get it wrong.
In other, completely random, news, here is a picture of my last spinach salad. It looks a lot better than the first one.
4 comments:
I was very relieved to read that Sherlock didn't get his Coke! You really don't want to see a Coke habit in a kid that young, especially one with his disposition.
And that is indeed one fine-looking spinach salad.
(Apologies if this comment has posted itself twice, I'm having technical difficulties today.)
I quite agree. Sure, at first it's just one can every few days or so, but the next thing you know, there's two liter bottles hidden in the closet and he's sneaking hits after bedtime. We can't have that.
As someone who has recently given up said vile drink? Good on you!
Good for you! Nasty stuff. Rots your teeth. Takes rust off metal. Also, if your car battery's connections are corroded, a little Coke will fix them right up. Given all that, I can't imagine why people want to put it inside their bodies (when beer is so much nicer).
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