UnBooks:Mancini's

Ah... shabby chic at its finest...

Ha! Mancini's, you ethicless low-lit fart-emporium! I always could count on you, though I only visited once. Unaccountably busy, your pizza tasted like a well-ironed shit, and I dread to think of your linguine, fishy as the waft was. And yet, though I am afraid to say it, I miss those days, back in the city, visiting the paedophile at the phone shop, browsing through moderately-priced Halal newsagents fruitlessly. And yes, the subsequent viewing of Of Mice And Men with my father and brother could not conscionably have been the same without my constant air-beating, diffusing that sweet old probably out-of-date smell perpetually. All traces of the film are now wiped from mind's eye, yet, Mancini's, your legacy lives on after all this time. Yes, I only visited you once, and yes, your singular recall to mind brings me back to the stench of youth.

Forth we went,

that brisk Wednesday early evening, past Domino's, past Gambrino's, past Bar Gambrino's (or was it the old biere garden at this point in our narrative?), past even REAL Italian families we came to serenade thee, yes, you were located a fat mile from our residence, and little did we know that such a distance was a pain to walk on food-poisoning! Ah, Wednesday, the day I was born... woe betide me...

But I digress. For this is a matter of utmost gravity. I hear you are no longer with us, and apologise sincerely for being unable to attend thy funeral: for there now stands a significant 50 miles between you and me. I hear some chefs were better than others, I must assert we are surely blessed to have bestowed upon us the very worst Italian cuisine prepared this side of the Prime Meridian.

Though scarcely do I remember it, my Diavolo turned eerily edible, at once the putrid undercooked pepperoni and rubber mozzarella as the fact that it was pizza and pizza cannot be bad.

Reaching the gates of that demented, yuppie-filled sewer,

we were paraded past several tables until we reached the one that I would later call, "the table at which I sat to eat a pizza and miss out dessert"--it was constructed by the pulp of wine corks, giving it an unsuitably homely feel, along with an unintentional half-baked yellowy whorehouse ambience. We sat, ready to order, for a considerable amount of time: this was our oppurtunity to talk shop. My father thought to himself about his work; we wasn't a very private man but there will little else he may have doted on doing, considering the company, than inventing cracker jokes whose quality has not risen at all over the years, but which rely on the exotic winged behemoth from whom the resounded. My brother, as always, was quoting Yu Gi Oh! quotes to himself in his famously embarrasing hushed accents. And I, the youngest knight of the round table, could do nothing but piss of either parties. Fortunately for them our orders were taken at this point, meaning all that was left between ourselves and our food was an even more considerable amount of time; a nevertheless formidable thing for me.