Pizza Express: My Hatred

While I was out dining last night, I explained my year without pizza to my dining partner, who said, "Ooh, I couldn't last a year without my Pizza Express!"

Make no mistake about it, my year without pizza will be a cold black hell of loneliness, longing and pain, but one thing I won't be missing will be Pizza Express. I cannot abide their wares, cannot stand everything about them. I hate their self-conscious positioning of themselves as the higher quality alternative to regular pizza. I hate the way they allow jazz musicians to play in their restaurants, soiling an evening of pizza appreciation with their improvisational horrors. I hate their pissy little pizzas with their tiny rabbit-shits of cheese, as if the very notion of something as uncultured and plebeian as, you know, CHEESE COVERING THE TOP OF THE PIZZA, fills them with horror. And above all, I hate that they don't home-deliver, like their whole dining experience, with its jazz and its gleaming surfaces, is so infinitely superior to every other pizzeria that they don't have to. We're so good, let the people come to us!

Well, as you know by now, I am not going to any pizzerias for the next 361 days. But I am ESPECIALLY not going to Pizza Express.