Audio By Carbonatix
Grimaldi’s Pizzeria
3636 McKinney, Suite 190
214-559-4611
Last night my ladyfriend and I decided on a pizza dinner at
Grimaldi’s in the
If you haven’t been yet, Grimaldi’s is the first Dallas location of the chain
which has served famously delicious coal-fired pizza pies to dudes like Frank
Sinatra (awesome) and pansies like Rudy Giuliani (destroyer of nudie bars and
enemy to dudes everywhere, “America’s Mayor” or not) in its original Brooklyn
location.
Just to be clear, though, Grimaldi’s is not really the kind
of place you go with your bros unless A) you’re a metrosexual who actually
lives in the West Village or B) you’re doing some tag team, double-date
romancing of the ladies. They don’t serve pizza by the slice for one, and the
biggest pie they make is only 18 inches wide.
Wussies.
I will say, however, that Grimaldi’s has some of the best
pizza in town–a simple pepperoni pie is damn near a revelation here.
We’ve also never had any issues with the service. Until last night, that is.
Our waitress wasn’t exactly stiff or untrained.
She didn’t give us attitude, or mix up an order (save including onions
on the ladyfriend’s
salad after she specifically asked for their exclusion, something
easily dealt
with) or anything of that sort.
Honestly, she just freaked me out.
First she sauntered up to the table
and stared off into space for 10 or 15 seconds before asking if we’d like a
beverage, as if she’d stepped straight out of Children of the Corn to enter the service industry. When the pizza came, she opened up in an extraordinarily blank monotone: “You guys like your
pizza?”
Normal, enthusiastic couple: “It’s delicious, thanks!”
Waitress in abrupt monotone,
half staring at floor: “good.”
I didn’t need her to do a cheer or anything, but a little
down-home
pizza parlor braggadocio wouldn’t have hurt her here. After all, we’re dudes…well, I’m a dude, and we need to be encouraged.
My favorite moment of the evening came toward the end, however, and went a little like this: “You guys have a great
afternoon [It was nearly ]…(mumble,
mumble)…and I hope you get home safe.” Sure, the concern for our well being was
nice, but something in her tone gave me the distinct impression I should check
my brake lines for damage, icy roads or not.
Honestly, I hate to bag on this chick. I was once a mediocre waiter myself*. Plus
I’d kind of like to sit in her section again, just to make sure I wasn’t high
the first time.
* To anyone that ate at the Old Town Pluckers in the summer
of ’03, I am truly sorry. Except you, cop that I spilled ranch on and little
kid that questioned my manhood for not recommending “Fire in the Hole” wings.
You can both fuck right off.Dude Factor (Crazy Chick Edition): 6, or “Anne Heche” on a scale of 1 (“Ally Sheedy”) to 10 (“Courtney
Love”)
