Like any New Yorker, I have my favorite pizza joint (Smiling Pizza in Park Slope, Brooklyn on 7th Avenue), and they are reliable. I love my neighborhood place; they make great pies and there's always a good vibe when you go there. They are actual Italians from Italy, not a t.v. show like The Jersey Shore. But, on one dark and stormy night, something went horribly awry. The conditions were stressful for any delivery person, and that fateful night, my paisan language skills went right out the car window. I had five achingly excruciating back-and-forth phone calls between the pizza place and the driver, explaining over and over the differences between a number street and a number avenue. It did not go well.
At one point, I was sitting in the stairwell looking at the front door of the building, like any hard-up college freshman, thinking "What happened?" Minutes before, I had the last painful exchange with my head against the wall drawing numbers with my finger onto it, desperate to communicate with the driver. When he finally showed up, all was forgiven. He looked like a drowned puppy, so I tipped him heavy. Consuela The Overlord wins again.
