People believe France is the land of good food. France believes America is the land of guilty pleasure junk food. Hence, they name their pizzas things like “New York” rather than “Naples.” So what’s on it? BBQ sauce — ’cause that’s american — cheese, onions, hamburger meat — ’cause Americans can’t eat enough burgers, can they? — and pickles. Pickles? Yeah. It comes with a packet of “Sauce Picante” which would never strike an American as spicy in any way. So how is it as guilty-pleasure food goes? Perhaps the worst part was the crust — dry and chewy, definitely a frozen preformed crust but one of the worst I’ve had. I tend to like the combination of BBQ and pickle, but true to french tradition, they got each about 70% right, so the overlap was a stunning 49%. On no curve is that a pass. There was neither enough cheese nor BBQ to make the texture more pliable than cardboard.
You know how there’s that old joke about how pizza is like sex — even when it’s bad its still good? I’ve always believed that joke and I guess I still do. It’s just that this pizza is rape. Aggravated anal assualt at that.

November 20, 2006 at 12:24 pm
[...] It was awful. Quite probably the worst pizza I have ever eaten (and I have eaten pizza in England). Or, as Brumaire so eloquently put it, “this pizza was rape.” [...]
June 19, 2008 at 9:02 am
Somehow i missed the point. Probably lost in translation
Anyway … nice blog to visit.
cheers, Descant.