kosher pepperoni pizza

There is no greater evidence of the current economic situation than a walk down any given avenue in New York City. While I was somewhat shocked to learn that two B&N stores I used to frequent have closed, proving there is not even a haven for corporate America, even more sad are the vacant small store fronts --sometimes two and three across on one block -- that are now unfortunately empty. These places remind me that there was once a small town feeling to New York, one that I hardly knew and feel sorry I missed.

So when a new pizza joint opened up on a corner a couple of blocks from my apartment, I decided I'd be a loyal local and give them my business. {Insert common male name here}'s Pizza has an unassuming counter and a cafe like feel. I walked in eager to see if this would become another place to add to my rainy day reading spots. I'd noticed a sign by the door that said this was a kosher establishment. (Now, while I was raised loosely Catholic and I now like to think I belong to the church of the Golden Rule or, as Carrie Bradshaw claims, the church of "please" and "thank you" and "don't talk with your mouth full" -- I know what kosher means.)

But all this knowledge goes out the window when this exchange happens:

Guy at Counter: May I help you?
Me: Yes, do you sell slices?
Guy: Yes, slices and individual pies.
Me: OK, may I have a slice of pepperoni?
Guy: Oh, we don't sell pepperoni here. We have veggies and other things but we don't have pepperoni on the premises.
Me: (Light goes on.) Oh! I'm sorry! (Foot goes in mouth.)
Guy: (Thankfully looking unaffected. He must get it a lot.) No problem.

I ordered a slice of plain and sat down with my book. I later texted my friend and reported my idiocy to her knowing since her ex is Jewish, she'll appreciate it. She thought it was so funny she told her mom. I don't mind though. I love not being the only one who revels in my idiocy. So Masculine Name Kosher Pizza Joint was good. Next time I think I'll try the Penne Vodka.