Good Luck Surviving Cobb’s (Crash) Landing

Cobb’s Landing
200 North Indian River Dr.
Fort Pierce, FL




If you haven’t figured it out by now, Suit757 is pretty low maintenance.

Give me vacant bar stool, the game on the flat screen, something interesting to eat -- and don’t let my beer glass reach empty.

That’s it.

I mean, in my 140 reviews here, how many times have you seen me bitch about the service? Pretty much never.

Low maintenance.

But the bald headed, heavily tattooed idiot who works the outdoor tiki bar at Cobb’s Landing in Fort Pierce, Florida got on my last nerve.

He must have been hired off the reject list of the TSA, DMV or United Airlines Customer Service. Maybe all three.

Because I’ve seen TSA agents fondle non-terrorist testicles more enthusiastically than this guy brought me my RastafaRye Ale and a menu.

Twenty minutes later, I had to practically grab him by the throat to get him to finally take my order.

Since I had so much idle time, I spent it admiring the rather eclectic crowd enjoying the warm March evening gathered around the bar at the Fort Pierce City Marina.

Kind of the like a tropical version of the cantina scene from Star Wars, a motley assortment of shaggy haired surfer dudes, muscle bound body builders in tight shirts, grey haired Yankee ex-pats and weathered Floridian divorcees looking for love were listening to the steel drum sounds of a local Caribbean music band.

For a once hard-scrabble, gritty, citrus-exporting waterfront, the City Marina in Fort Piece has been transformed into a typical public-private partnership of mediocrity after Hurricane Jeanne wiped the place out in 2005.

It’s amazing what $19 million in taxpayer money and corrupt Congressional earmarks can do.

But like any other government subsidized enterprise, Cobb’s Landing comes up way short.

I ordered the blackened grouper sandwich. Or so I thought.

Blackened normally implies that the filet of fish is seared with a generous application of spices.

But the fish I was served had no seasoning at all.

And if that scrawny piece of protein was grouper, then Suit757 is a world famous underwear model.

I’ve been suspicious of Florida’s ubiquitous “Grouper Sandwiches” ever since the Daytona Beach News Journal did an investigative DNA study of local fish camps and discovered that 40% of the restaurants in that part of the state served something other than the advertised grouper.

Every sunburned Yankee who comes to Florida demands grouper. Never mind that snapper, red fish, striper and wahoo are just as tasty.

The tourists expect grouper.

As a result, you can’t buy a filet of grouper straight off the boat for less than $16 per pound. That’s double the price a fillet mignon.

No wonder half the waterfront restaurants in the Sunshine State slip something other than grouper into their “Grouper Sandwiches.”

But Suit757 doesn’t take too kindly to being lied to.

Or ignored.

Fortunately, one of the female bartenders noticed my empty beer glass after some interminable amount of time passed, and offered me another beer.

I’d probably still be sitting there right now if she hadn’t offered to bring me my tab.

Chrome dome was too busy admiring his tattoos and the Miami Heat game on the TV to be bothered with waiting on any paying customers like me.

I mean, does this guy work for tips or what?

Maybe not.

There are always strings attached to all those earmarks and millions in taxpayer subsidies.

You know. Half of the workers hired for this government enterprise must be on welfare. Or all the workers must be union.

Or you must hire a certain quota of bald guys with at least 30% of their bodies tattooed.

And if all these mandates make turning a profit impossible, the taxpayers will subsidize the losses.

So just consider this review to be yet another Suit757 rule to live by.

Just like, “Don’t eat at chain restaurants.”

“Don’t order the food at an Irish Pub.”

“Don’t get behind the guy with the turban in the TSA line.”

Suit757 rule #83: “Only eat at places subject to the consequences of the free market.”

You’re welcome.

Rating: Clean Grill with Shirt.

Suit757 is Down with his Yellow Mess in the ‘Hood

Jenkins’ Bar-B-Q
830 N. Pearl St.
Jacksonville, FL



I had my first conversation with a black person when I was 20 years old.

Yeah, Suit757 lived a sheltered upbringing.

I told that person that everything I knew about black people came from The Cosby Show.

When she recovered from her wild convulsions of laughter – about ten minutes later, if I recall – she said that probably wasn’t the most representative depiction of black lifestyle.

I’m pretty sure she meant that to be an understatement.

But I have friends who claim to be experts on the latest comings and goings of hip hop culture who won’t so much as drive through the black neighborhood in their town in broad daylight with the doors locked.

And yet they claim to be connoisseurs of real barbeque.

I may still be confused about that guy who got shot. Six Pack? Two Pack?

Or how many “Doggies” are in Snoop Doggie Doggie Doggie’s(?) name.

Or is it no Doggies now?

No clue.

But I know enough to know that some of the best barbeque in America can almost always be found within a few miles of Martin Luther King Boulevard. And I don’t have a problem going there to get some.

Come to think of it, maybe I did spend too much time watching The Cosby Show.

Or just maybe, being a Suit in Strange Places conditions you to being out of place in pursuit of great food.

I mean really, the friendly folks at Jenkins' Bar-B-Que in the black section of downtown Jacksonville certainly don’t cause me any more concern than the collective head swivels from the natives at the backwoods redneck bars I’ve patronized in Mississippi.

You know Charlie Daniels’ song “Uneasy Rider”? Yeah. Been there. Done that. All the time. In a suit, no less.

So I don’t have any problem standing in line with the regulars at Jenkins to give my order to the lady behind the counter.

Especially when the barbeque is this good.

The specialty here? Ribs slow smoked over hickory.

Your choices are a large rack, a small rack, a double order or a “rib sandwich”.

The most popular order is the sandwich. I’ve ordered that before.

If I didn’t feel out of place being the only white guy in the joint, I would have if I actually tried to pick my “sandwich” up and eat it.

Um…don’t do that.

That’s because a rib sandwich in Jacksonville isn’t a sandwich at all. It’s a slice of white bread under three ribs (bone in, of course) and another slice or two on top.

These ribs may be slow smoked and tender, but you still can’t eat the bones!

The double order is six bones. Small rack is 10 or 11. Large rack is 13 or 14.

Since I had a dining companion with me, I knew I needed to go bigger than the “sandwich”. But how much bigger?

“Get a double order,” the friendly lady behind the counter advised. “If you get a small rack, you’ll have left overs for lunch tomorrow and dinner on Saturday!”

Hmm. Left overs aren’t an option for a Suit in a Strange Places. Ribs don’t travel well.

But, since I wasn’t planning to order any sides, I took a chance and ordered the small rack any way.

Good move.

Apparently the Jenkins’ lady must get all her knowledge of white culture by watching people starve on Survivor.

We had no problem polishing off the entire rack.

“Next time, we’re getting the large”, I said.

An absolute mess.

That is the only way to describe Jenkins’ ribs.

But messy in a good way.

For about twenty bucks I was handed a giant package of butcher paper that smelled like heaven.

Like a four year old on Christmas morning, I gleefully plopped down at a vacant booth and tore into the package.

At first I thought she had given me a loaf of Wonder bread. That’s all I could see.

Tossing aside my slices of white bread like superfluous ribbons and bows, the real reason I came to the “bad” side of town revealed itself to me.

A rack of ribs submerged in a pool of signature yellow barbeque sauce.

The sauce is yellow because it is mustard-based. And that’s the way folks like their barbeque here along the Southeast Atlantic coast.

“Most Northerners don’t like it,” is the way Jenkins’ owner Meltonia Jenkins-DuBois, describes her famous sauce. “But they get used to it.”

I don’t even like mustard. But I love Jenkins’ mustard barbeque sauce.

The sugar, vinegar and spice take the tart mustardy flavor to whole new -- and better -- place.

Providing more spicy kick than most mustard-based sauces, the sugar and spice are perfectly balanced. It’s sweet, but you get that enjoyable tingle on your lips too.

Jenkins’ offers a “spicy” version too for the hardened regulars.

Under that avalanche of sauce are some pretty good ribs.

I noticed that one end of the rack was smoky, tender and meaty. The other end offered a bit more tooth resistance while contributing more flavor from the smoke kissed “bark” of the meat.

Under the ribs was yet another half a loaf of Wonder Bread soaking up all that mustardy goodness.

I went through a small forest of napkins to keep the yellow sauce from running down my arms. Despite five minutes of scrubbing in the men’s room, my fingernails were permanently polished yellow.

By the time I gnawed the meat off the last precious rib and pushed back my mountain of bones and yellow stained napkins, I was feeling perfectly comfortable being the only white dude in Jenkins.

After all, I had proved myself worthy. I polished off a whole rack. Enjoyed the heck out of the quirky yellow sauce.

And knew enough not to eat the bones in my Wonder Bread sandwich.

Yeah. Suit757 fits in here. No problem.

I can hang in the black part of town.

Just don’t ask me what Snoop Doggie Dog sings.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Philly’s the Place to Get Showered with Brotherly Love -- and F Bombs

Citizens Bank Park
1 Citizens Bank Way
Philadelphia, PA



Phillies fans don’t deserve Citizens Bank Park.

If they had any self respect, they’d insist on playing in some rat infested relic of a park in the shadow of the Navy Yard to better reflect their blue collar sensibilities.

Not here. Not in a gleaming, fan-friendly facility built for comfort like Citizens Bank Park.

I mean, these are the fans who just days earlier heckled Washington Nationals outfielder Jason Werth at his home ballpark while he was being helped off the field with a broken wrist.

“You deserve it!”

Classy.

Of course these are the same fans who infamously booed Santa Claus and pelted him with snowballs at an Eagles game in 1968.

Welcome to “The City of Brotherly Love”.

But don’t worry about Suit757. I can take it.

In fact, I found Phillies fans to be quite entertaining. Between the chain smoking Jersey girls in tight jeans loitering outside the park and the creative heckling of the opposing bullpen pitcher, I learned a whole bunch of new innovative uses for the “F” word.

What else do you want on a Tuesday night?

As it turns out you get a lot more than just that infamous Philly charm at Citizens Bank Park.

The seats are nice, the isles wide and the concourses clean. Even in the nose bleed seats in Center Field where I sat thanks to a ten dollar bill and the entrepreneurial spirit of a scalper.

Like most of the modern nouveau ballparks, this one prides itself on the local flavor of its concessions.

Out beyond Center Field, you’ll find “Ashburn Alley” named after the Phillies Hall of Fame center fielder and broadcaster.

This is where the twenty and third year olds congregate. And where all the outposts of Philadelphia’s famous culinary institutions can be found.

The longest line was for Chickie’s and Pete’s, stretching all the way to Left Field. I mean, their famous “crab fries” are okay, but not worth missing half the game -- for some crinkle fries sprinkled with Old Bay.

Been there, done that and didn’t buy the shirt at the New Jersey location.

The second longest line belonged to Tony Luke’s, another Philadelphia institution I’ve patronized in original form.

I still dream of their roast pork, spinach rabe and hot dog fries when I go to sleep at night in my Tony Luke’s shirt.

The only problem with this new trend toward world famous shirt-buying worthy concessions at ball parks is that nagging concern in the back of my mind: can a staff of frazzled ballpark employees really duplicate the real thing for the sports-watching masses?

Well, sometimes yes. And sometimes no.

That’s a heck of a gamble to take considering you’ll be paying about double the already inflated prices for standard ballpark fare.

The most tempting concession was Bull’s BBQ, where the smoke of sizzling kielbasa wafts appetizingly into Center Field. I almost pulled the trigger and gave my hard earned dough to Phillies slugger-turned-pit-master Greg “The Bull” Luzinski.

But then I came to my senses. I’m in Philadelphia. How can I get any thing but the city’s namesake sandwich?

So I opted to try the Philly cheesesteak from Campo’s, an “Old City” Philly institution for six decades.

Is it as good as the original?

I have no idea. The reason I picked it was because I had never tried Campo’s before. Something new and different!

And the line was short.

Maybe not a good sign.

The problem with judging “authentic” Philly Cheesesteaks is that the original concept wasn’t that great to begin with.

Cheap, low quality beef and cheap, low quality cheese on an Italian roll.

Now you can find significantly upgraded Philly cheesesteak sandwiches with tender seasoned beef, sautéed onions, peppers and assorted fancy sauces.

Almost every corner sports bar in America has figured out a way to improve upon the concept.

But just as you savor your first bite of one of those upgraded cheesesteaks, some drunk guy in a Chase Utley jersey will start dropping F bombs on you for not staying “authentic.”

For better or worse, my Campo’s Philly cheesesteak was “authentic”.

Even with all the peppers, onions and mushrooms I paid an extra buck and a half for, the meat could have used more seasoning. The cheese was hard to discern.

I know some Philly fanatic will want to snap my wrist for saying it, but I’ve had better at Hooters.

The greatest challenge was finding a place to eat it among the crowd of 43,000. I had no interest in hauling my meal back up into the upper atmosphere of my assigned 300 level seat.

I just needed some standing room with a small ledge where a man and his cheesesteak could be alone for a few moments.

So I opted for the “Budweiser Rooftop” behind Ashburn Alley.

I guess the folks at Citizens Bank Park were trying to recreate the “rooftop” vibe at Wrigley, only within the confines of their own park.

Except this version isn’t as much fun.

Or as close to the action.

Even “The Bull” couldn’t dream about hitting a home run this far.

If it sounds like I’m complaining about the Phillies ballpark, don’t get me wrong. It’s a great place to see a game.

Best of all is the beer selection.

Top notch microbrews can be found at virtually every concession stand. And for the same price as a similar sized Budweiser!

At $7.75 a pop, beers are no bargain, but at least you feel like you are getting something good in return for all the cash you hand over every time you get thirsty.

As it turned out, I got thirsty three times.

That thirst was quenched by a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale and two different flavors from Pennsylvania’s own microbrewery, Victory Brewing Company.

My Victory Hop Devil lived up to its name, overflowing in floral hop aroma and flavor.

I expected the Victory Prima Pils to be a major step down.

It wasn’t. At all.

Virtually just as hoppy as the Hop Devil, but with a lighter, more effervescing pilsner feel, the Prima Pils was one of the best “light” colored beers I’ve ever had.

Remember when a day at the ball park meant consuming massive quantities of overpriced mass-produced light beer?

Citizens Bank Park proves that those dark days are over. At least for the discerning few with good taste.

While I was having a great time drinking good beer and watching baseball, I can’t say the same for my 43,000 colleagues.

Despite running up a four run lead, the Phillies blew it in the Seventh Inning on a throwing error by Pete Orr and bad pitching by Chad Qualls. The hated Mets stormed back with seven unanswered runs to send the Phillies to three games under .500.

F bombs rained down from the 300 level – along with empty Bud Light cans.

Like youth, both good beer selection and nice ballparks are wasted on all the wrong people.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

My Ode to the Hot Dog

New Way Lunch
21 South St.
Glens Falls, NY




“Suit757, what is your obsession with hot dogs?”

I’ve actually gotten that question from a few loyal Suits in Strange Places readers.

If one of my fellow suits posed that question, their suit credentials would be immediately revoked.

Are you kidding me?!?!

The hot dog is one of man’s greatest inventions. Right up there with dollar beer night, Goody’s headache powders and that outfit Scarlett Johansson wore to the Golden Globes a few years ago.

If you don’t believe me, check out the wieners being served at New Way Lunch way up in the frozen tundra of Upstate New York.

Simple pink little dogs smothered in that wonderful symphony of flavors that is raw onions and meaty chili, the lowly hot dog has been the main attraction at this little lunch counter since 1919.

Hot dogs get a bum rap.

Food elitists see them as nothing more than pre-formed nitrated processed scraps of meat deemed not worthy enough for more well-connected meat products.

But we 99 percenters, who appreciate the inner beauty of these tubes of meat, recognize the versatility of America’s favorite culinary pastime.

My hot dog obsession started when I was a kid.

This won’t come as a big surprise to you, but young Suit757 wasn’t a big fan of fruits, vegetables or anything my mother might consider remotely healthy.

When I was hungry, a hot dog or two wrapped in a paper towel, zapped for a minute in the microwave and stuffed into a soft bun with a squirt of ketchup was mealtime nirvana.

While modern science might reject the possible survivability of a pure processed meat diet, it is a fact that my hot dog intake actually increased substantially in college.

Free from the shackles of parental oversight, a two dollar pack of hot dogs, a 99 cent package of buns and a case of cheap Keystone Beer (non-union) was an ideal college kid grocery list, considering my priorities at the time.

But as satisfying as a nuked Oscar Myer can be in a pinch, there is no doubt that hot dog cuisine can be elevated to a much higher plane depending on such variables as cooking method, toppings and even location.

Everything tastes better roasted over a charcoal grill, hot dogs especially. Fire, danger and the great outdoors instantly transform a functional exercise like lining your stomach with processed meat prior to a night of beer drinking into a festive backyard event.

Hot dogs just taste better sitting outside in the sunshine, beer in hand, whether it’s your backyard cookout or behind home plate at Spring Training.

I think it was Humphrey Bogart who once said, “A hot dog at a ball game is better than a fillet at the Ritz.”

Well, said, Humphrey. Well said.

Part of the appeal of hot dogs is that they are so convenient and fun to eat.

One of the greatest moments of my life was at one of my friend’s bachelor parties that began with a Washington Nationals game at old RFK Stadium. Somehow one of the attendees knew someone who knew someone who knew the guy who owned the company that catered the ballpark.

Within moments of the last out, this fellow party-goer appeared with a wide grin on his face – and a box of four dozen unsold ballpark hot dogs that moments earlier had been selling for five bucks a piece. Free!

I’ll never forget my euphoria. Just like winning the lottery.

I spend hours each day dreaming about sitting at the ball park devouring that hot dog of my dreams.

But here I was with a virtual limitless supply splayed out on RFK concrete floor right before my eyes!

“Now that’s a cheap dinner,” I kept exclaiming as we all stood in the concourse devouring our newfound honey pot of RFK wieners, which conveniently allowed us all to bypass that annoying “getting something to eat” exercise before moving on to the evening’s more exciting planned activities.

Cheap, convenient, portable.

But what really elevates the hot dog to roadfood destination dining is its diversity as a delivery vehicle for delicious topping combinations.

Cheese, chili, onions, mustard, ketchup, peppers.

Even bacon and pastrami. I mean, what could be better to add to your processed meat -- than even MORE processed meat?!

The delicious options are almost limitless.

But not at New Way Lunch. Your options are limited to mustard, raw onion and a chili that is really just of concoction of finely ground beef and spices.

But it’s a formula that has been working for nearly a century.

The crunch of the onions and the spice of the meat sauce help to camouflage the fact that the tiny pink dogs served here aren’t anything special.

On this frigid winter day, I ordered a cup of chili on the side, which is nothing like the topping on the dogs.

Infused with tomato, beans, big chunks of meat and just enough spice to warm my frozen bones, the chili is bright red compared to the dark brown hot dog topping.

Unfortunately, the new modern lunch room built in 2006 lacks the century old charm of the original location across the street.

But I guess living up to its name, New Way had to change with the times, even if its most popular menu item never does.

That’s the beauty of hot dogs. It’s something those one percenters will never get.

Like Scarlett Johansson’s fashion sense, hot dogs will never go out of style.

Rating: Would Wear A Free Shirt.

Conway’s Red Top Won’t Leave You Hungry

Conway’s Red Top
1520 S. Nevada Ave.
Colorado Springs, CO



I love burgers.

As if you haven’t figured that out by now.

What other food item offers such diversity of goodness?

Thick, thin. Single, double, triple.

And then you can get into all the cool and crazy toppings.

Bacon. Ham. Fried Eggs. Pineapple. BBQ sauce. Onion rings.

All of the above.

But today, I uncharacteristically tried to keep it simple.

Forgoing all the other exotic combinations, I ordered the cheeseburger with lettuce, onion and tomato.

Conway’s Red Top has been world famous for decades for its delicious burgers. I just wanted to check out the real thing. The original. Just as Mr. Conway intended when he bought this place in 1944.

Conway’s Red Top isn’t going to get any points for quaint atmosphere. A non-descript place by the side of a busy road just south of downtown Colorado Springs, this place puts all its effort into the food.

The first thing you notice about Conway’s burger is the size.

This thing looks enormous sitting on its little plate beside a pile of onion rings and French fries.

Half a foot in diameter, it takes two hands to lift it off the plate.

But after that first bite, I knew this burger was about more than just quantity.

This monstrosity just might be burger perfection.

Thick fancy burgers get all the fame and chicks, but Conway’s proves that good quality thin patties can be just as good. If not better.

It’s all about texture.

Conway’s Red Top grills its buns to a toasty crispness which in combination with the soft juicy burger, melty American cheese and crunch of lettuce and onions, conspires to make each bite a little piece of hamburger heaven.

And thanks to the fact that it is as big as a small pizza, there is no way this thin burger is going to leave you hungry.

Especially with all those onion rings and French fries, known as “frings” on Conway’s menu.

Actually, the onion rings were fairly ordinary. The skin-on fresh fries were better.

Note for next time: skip the “frings” and just stick to the fries.

Or better yet – order two burgers.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Pizzeria Bianco: The Answer to Poverty, War and Deficit Spending?

Pizzeria Bianco
623 East Adams St.
Phoenix, AZ






I’m always skeptical of the hype.

Call me a contrarian. Call me a doubter. Or just call me jaded.

Actually, I think after all these years of witnessing crowds overflowing into the parking lots of Applebees, Red Lobster and Buffalo Wild Wings, I never cease to be dumbfounded by America’s love affair with mediocrity.

At this point, an over-hyped restaurant is bound to stimulate my skeptical reflex.

But every once in a while I come across a place so hyped, so lauded, so hipper-than-thou, that it piques my curiosity.

Pizzeria Bianco in Phoenix is exactly that kind of place.

Pizzeria Bianco is the Tim Tebow of pizzerias.

If Tim Tebow is the Second Coming, then Pizzeria Bianco is where the Almighty quenches his pizza cravings.

I first read about Pizzeria Bianco while sitting in a middle seat of a 757 (where else?) somewhere over Kansas in one of those in-flight magazines. A top ten list of the best pizza joints in America.

I immediately tore it out, stuffed in my brief case, and, I’m happy to say, I’ve managed to hit up most of the places on the list. Baltimore, Tampa, Brooklyn, Chicago.

But Phoenix was always a problem. I’ve stopped by Pizzeria Bianco a few times coming to or from the nearby airport and always encountered the same problem.

Hoards of people standing outside the little red brick building in 105 degree heat waiting for hours to get in the place.

No thank you.

Look, I like food as much as anyone. I write a blog about it for cripe’s sake.

But there is no way in a snowball’s chance in the Sonoran Desert you are going to get me to wait four hours for a pizza. I don’t care how good it is supposed to be.

Patience is not one of Suit757’s virtues.

As the years have gone by, the legend of Pizzeria Bianco has grown to ridiculous proportions, winning numerous awards bestowing it the title of “WORLD’S BEST PIZZA”.

As if whoever hands out those awards had actually eaten every pizza on planet Earth.

Whatever.

Rachel Ray, The New York Times, Zagat, GQ, Martha Stewart, Vogue, James Beard. Even Oprah (that’s the kiss of death). All have declared this to be the greatest pizza ever made.

Then one day I’m sitting on my couch at home, cold brew in hand, watching a baseball game and the announcers start vamping about their upcoming roadtrip to Arizona.

And guess what they start talking about?

By this point my curiosity had eclipsed my skepticism. I’ve just got to know. Is it REALLY that good?

Really?

Fortunately, the owners of Pizzeria Bianco discovered a bit of capitalist impulse and came to a radical idea – if you extend the hours you serve those hungry huddled hoards, you’ll make even more money.

So they expanded their hours from just four hours per day to eleven hours per day. Now open 11am to 10pm!

Which works out just fine with my Suit757 schedule.

Done with my last meeting at 1:30. Flight out of PHX at 3:30. Maybe I’ll miss the lunch rush.

Sure enough, the tiny dining room was less than half full with plenty of vacant stools at the bar.

I sipped on a pint of the only beer on tap, Sandstone Cream Ale, while perusing the succinct menu.

Refreshing, but not particularly flavorful, I found myself hoping the pizza would be more inspiring than the local brew.


My second choice, Four Peaks Hop Knot, brewed in nearby Tempe, was much better. Like liquid hops in a can. Literally.

My pizza choice really wasn’t difficult. Out of the six or seven options, I ordered the one with the sausage.

Duh.

Fennel sausage and caramelized onions on “house smoked” mozzarella cheese. Sounds good.

My waiter helpfully pointed out that as presented on the menu, this is a “white pizza”, meaning no sauce. But if I wanted sauce, he’d be happy to throw some on there.

Oh yeah. Gotta have some sauce.

Five minutes later my masterpiece arrived still steaming fresh from the smoky 800 degree wood-fired oven.

If was a beautiful sight to behold. Generous thick-cut sausage slices. Golden-fried sweet onions. Smoked mozzarella and just a slather of tomato spread across a thin crust specked with dark char marks from the brick oven.

This was the moment of truth. I was about to sink my teeth into the greatest pizza ever created by the hands of man. A meal fit only for the Gods – and those mortals foolish enough to wait for four hours outside in desert heat.

Talk about high expectations!

As I lifted that first piece to my mouth and tore off my first bite, the anticipation was almost too much to bear.

Chew. Chew. Chew. Swallow.

Well?

This pizza is really, really good!

The greatest pizza ever to grace our universe?

Oh, come on now.

You’ve got to know Suit757 is too jaded to grant a title like that.

But you know what? There’s no doubt about it. This is darn good pizza.

The savory sausage and sweet onions complimented each other like a marriage made in heaven. And the thin crust, with a toasty flavor fresh from the brick oven and punctuated with natural crisp air pockets, was light enough that I singlehandedly polished off the entire pie.

But the crust was also the source of the only flaw I detected. It got a little too limp and soggy in the middle. Maybe another few seconds in that inferno of an oven might have done it some good.

So there you go. Really good; but not perfect.

And you know what? I’m quite satisfied with that assessment.

I criss cross this great country of ours always on the look-out for the coolest bars, smokiest BBQ shacks and most delicious places to pig out.

I mean, what would it say about me if the rest of the world had already beaten me to the single greatest pizza joint in the galaxy -- and the cure to poverty, war and deficit spending?

I might as well just turn in my Brooks Brothers suit to Goodwill and retire.

Not a chance! Remember, always be skeptical of the hype.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt