A year later and there’s still ‘za in my mouth

Tarrantino’s.

How many times have we met?  How many more times will we spend an evening together.  Salty is your dough.  Salacious even.  Your oily cheese and mediocre sauce sends my mind reeling through years passed, of nights with bros and pups.  Many a time has your minuscule palette of flavor been sent through a toaster oven, floors populated with the remnants of your brothers.  You even serve us well in a microwave the following day.  The silty residue has been left permanent on our fingertips.  We love you.

And my how you’ve aged.  You’re even better than I remember.  Like an expensive Italian cabernet or a titilating NFL sideline broadcaster.  We’ve matured and you’ve matured gracefully.

And paired with a Hardywood Singel you’re in for a few moments of bliss, best enjoyed alone.