Tie count: 6
Diaper count: 2
Mom jeans count: 10
7215 Skillman St.
I was finishing the last three miles of my usual Wednesday 25-mile workout at LA Fitness, thinking about how it would really be worth it to get some fake boobs just so that I could hold my keys and my iPod in my fake boob cleavage while I sweat to the oldies, when I overheard two leathery cougars talking about their lunch plans:
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Coug 1: I hope tanning does fry my ovaries. Fuck those bitches.
Coug 2: Mmmm. Fried ovaries. Let's get some pizza.
They went across the parking lot to Picasso's. I followed them. And what followed that was a pretty tasty lunch experience. Now, I'd like to preface the rest of this review by saying that I'm fully aware that I've eaten at a couple of really crappy places lately, so it's possible that my excitement about the food at this place might be a little overboard. Ya know, kinda like those times you jump up and down and thank Jesus for giving you your period because you thought for three days that you were pregnant. I mean, I ate butt for lunch last week. So, my expectations when I went into this place weren't super high. I was just looking for some food that was slightly unbutt. And I'm happy to say, Picasso's, you delivered.
As far as the kind of cuisine you should expect from Picasso's, think Chili's but more Italian dishes and less skank. Their menu is way too big, which is a Cheesecake Factory strike against them, but at least it's not spiral-bound, and it is full of pictures (which, on the one hand makes it hard to decide what you want, but on the other hand makes it super easy to order more food while your mouth is full). For less than 10 bucks, I got a thin-crust Margherita pizza that was 8 circular inches of pure pesto happy. I also got an iced tea, refilled approximately 296 times. The service was really good, the food was delicious, and I totally went back for dinner another night of the week, so I can tell you that their pear and gorgonzola salad was effin' good, and the spaghetti Bolognese is a creamy, meaty meatfest. The semi-Italian food there was so good that not once did I think to myself, "Hey—wasn't Picasso, like, Spanish?"