RIP: 1973-2008Woe is me, people. Woe is me. Today the parents and I made our yearly birthday pilgrimage to my very favourite restaurant in the whole world. The joyful not-changed-since-the-70s Pizzeria Italia on Deansgate in Manchester. I was practically salivating as I strolled towards that red check tableclothed behemoth.
Gone. GONE!
In its place? 'Rustica'. Crapica more like. I don't want modern interior design and fresh bloody flowers on every table. I want 70s inspired paintings, crap opera music and waiters who know my name. I want waiters who playfully bring the bill to me instead of my dad, as they have done ever since I was 4 years old. I want the big fat chef who runs round the open kitchen at the speed of light, practically creating a tremor with every footstep. I want the carafes of house wine that could take the skin off your face, not the delicate tannins of a proper bottle. I don't want a pizza with crispy bloody duck on it, I want a simple cheese-laden-heart-attack-inducing margarita.
In short, I am devastated. Seriously. I actually nearly cried.
