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I've been a bad girl, a very, very bad girl! I'm going straight to hell - I know it.
I broke my three year commitment to abstinence. For a little over 1095 continuous days I had been religiously observing lent in my own personal way. Yet in a matter of one cursed evening, I fell off the wagon.
It started back in the summer of 2006, on July 9 to be specific, that faithful Sunday when Italy - by sheer luck if you ask me - defeated France during the World Cup Final and on penalty kicks became the world champions. Grrrr!
As an obsessed fan, to show my devoted patriotism for my team, I immediately declared my own embargo on Italy and launched a massive personal boycott campaign against the entire repertoire of the Italian gastronomy. I retaliated by depriving all Italian restaurants of my lovely French patronage. No more Italian cuisine - basta to pasta, pizza, risotto, and fettucini Alfredo.
I only had another 10 months to go until the next world cup and I would have brought my mission to fruition. Instead, I got caught into the harrowing web of a freaking folded over dough, colloquially referred in street terms as Calzone. What can I say? Carbs are whack!
Because you're dying to know, this is how it all went down.
As you know, my Belgian cousin, his boyfriend and my smelly puppy Georgie took a four-day mini trip to San Francisco. On Saturday night, as we were wrapping up our tourist sightings, we somehow found ourselves driving on Columbus Street along a strip filled with Italian restaurants. While the row of seemingly artisan-like dining establishments with their quaint and cozy canopied patio areas offered a rather inviting proposition, it was the sumptuous tantalizing smell of wood-fired and brick-oven baked pizza which serendipitously invaded the car and my nostrils that triggered the tragedy of the calzone casualty.
The calzone addiction had kicked in and there was no turning back. Yet I couldn't bring myself to telling the boys - the skinny bitch in me couldn't let the once upon a time fat Mona be exposed. So this little obsessive brain of mine decided that I would bravely postpone the consumption of my calzone until the following evening.
Evidently when Sunday came, as soon as I opened my eyes, one pressing thought came to mind: the calzone I was, no doubt, going to degust that day.
My plan was simple. I had to find a way to convince the boys that they wanted to eat Italian cuisine and make it look like it was their idea to try one of these yummy restaurants from the night before. So as early as breakfast time, I proceeded to reminisce about our random drive through the Italian area.
"Wasn't that little pocket of Italy cute?" I said casually. "It sure did smell divine," I continued thinking food would at least appeal to their bellies. "It kind of looked too commercially touristy," responded my cousin - whom, I forgot, is half Venetian and quite a connoisseur of all things Italian. Sensing reticence I promptly went into full-blown obstinate attack mode - after all, my calzone was at stake! "Maybe it's a tourist trap but it was cute and made me feel like I was in Europe!" I replied going for the emotional blackmail effect. The boys okayed it - done deal!
All day I was much occupied, busy thinking about the big fat calzone I was going to savor and already pre-selecting my stuffing ingredients.
When dinnertime came, as collectively and unanimously agreed upon, we three musketeers headed out to Columbus Street. We hadn't really set our minds on a specific venue and rather than consult our made-in-Belgium San Francisco tourists' guide, we opted to be impulsive and adventurous and to decide on a spot at the spur of the moment. I personally couldn't care less where we went as long as the joint was serving calzones.
When we passed the first Trattoria - which strangely had more of a French Brasserie feel to it - a fellow sporting a long, untamed beard and a tacky, shiny black suit with the white shirt widely open to reveal a rather unattractive hairy chest, accosted us. Obviously the maitre d', he proceeded to give us his usual orchestrated PR charade to convince us to dine at his establishment. While the boys seemed to be buying the whole blah blah blah, I personally didn't hear a word he blabbered and instantly zoomed in on the menu to locate the calzone section. Sacrilege! There were no calzones listed.
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Yet as the boys seemed ready to walk in, I could feel the anger mounting and the tension escalating in my entire body. "I'll be damned if I don't eat my fucking calzone tonight," I thought to myself. That's when I opened my mouth and with all the serenity I could gather inside my flabbergasted psycho self to avoid a major public scene, I very politely confronted the maitre d'.
"How come you don't have any calzones on your menu?" I challenged him with a mild hint of "threat to leave" in my voice.
"Si, per che no? We have calzones, I make calzones for you," he replied animatedly while gesturing with his hands Italian style. Trusting him, we grabbed a table. When the waiter came to take our order, guess what I ordered? A calzone!
"Sorry ma'am, we don't have calzone," he said. I was fuming with anger and immediately went on a secret hunger strike to mentally protest.
"You want to go somewhere else where they have calzones," my cousin compassionately asked. "No it's ok, I'm not hungry, but you guys eat," I answered in a not so inconspicuous, very passive aggressive way. As the boys made the executive decision to leave and go find me a calzone, the maitre d' just so happened to walk by.
"You said you have calzones yet the waiter says you don't," my cousin informed him.
"Sit down guys, per favore, we have calzones," the maitre d' begged us while signaling our waiter to come over.
"She wants a calzone," the maitre d' told the waiter with his finger pointed in my direction - Oh now it was my fault!
"I know but the chef said no," the waiter calmly replied. Next thing I knew, the chef, the maitre d' and the waiter were suddenly all standing in front of our table, engaged in a heated brouhaha about my freaking calzone. Evidently the boys were embarrassed as hell as we became the focal point of the restaurant's attention. Meanwhile, I was extremely annoyed at how absurd the situation was - I mean how hard could it possibly be to fold pizza dough?
Finally the trio split, and when our waiter returned a few minutes later, he gave me the good news. "So the chef will make an exception for you and will do the calzone as long as it's one of the pizzas listed on our menu," he said.
"No problem," I answered totally relieved the ordeal was over and that I would at last be eating a calzone. "So I'll have the chicken spinach pizza but in a calzone style and, can I please have it without bell-peppers because I am allergic," I instructed him, "also, is it possible to have the sauce on the side?"
Not to be a pain the ass - although I royally am - what I've learned is that when my stomach is terribly craving something so bad that it absolutely has to have it, then I better just say it - preferably out loud as obviously no one can hear what really goes on in my head!
Catch up on Singled Out!
