To Whom It May Concern:

What’s my favorite card game?  Uno.  How many words do I know in Spanish?  Uno.  What is my least favorite pizzeria? Little Caesar’s. But after Saturday night, Uno is in close competition.  I know what you’re thinking: “Tyler, you LOVE Pizzeria Uno! You had your first date there.  You had your first kiss there. Your parents announced their divorce and kept trying to tell you that it wasn’t your fault but you knew deep down inside that they resented what their lives had become and that you had ruined their dreams of traveling Europe, spending their days exploring the art and history of days gone by and their nights eating and drinking with new friends and old, but instead they have come to not be able to stand the sight of each other and looking at you only reminds them of each other and the life they’re missing there.”  I know, I know.  I used to love it.  Used to.  Now?  I’m not so sure.  Let me tell you why.

It was a rainy Saturday night on May 7, 2016. What better way to lift the gloomy spirits than to take my lovely girlfriend to the most romantic and quaint Italian pizzeria in the area: Pizzeria Uno.  Time and time again we have enjoyed countless memories over a deep dish pie and we hoped that Saturday would be another page in our figurative scrapbook.  Alas, it became a nightmare.  We arrived around 6 PM and were greeted with the normal customer traffic for a weekend dinner.  It didn’t take very long until we were seated in a nice cozy booth.  My lady and I were glancing back and forth between our menus and each other’s eyes.  We were like kids again.  After a minute we realized that we just wanted “the usual” and put our menus down so we could enjoy each other’s company.  We placed our order for a large mushroom and red pepper pizza and a couple of Coronas (for Siete de Mayo, obviously).  It was time to sit back, relax, and wait for our wonderful dinner to arrive.  Or so we thought…

Almost immediately after our server left the table we overheard the Assistant Manager berating a fearful looking waitress: “So you’re just going to stand there?!” I can understand the need to discipline an employee, but this did not seem appropriate.  I instinctively looked toward the situation and then at the table next to us. They seemed to be just as flabbergasted at what was happening as we were.  We shared a look with each other that seemed to say, “Can you believe this?”  We let it go because we felt it wasn’t our place to criticize, but it left us with a bad feeling about how the restaurant was being managed. At least, how it was being assistant managed.  We return to our conversation as we lie in wait for our ‘za and ‘ronas.  After around fifteen minutes our drinks arrived.  It was a busy Saturday so we understood.  Shortly thereafter, though, things went awry.  I sneak a peek at our waitress approaching with what appears to be our pizza.  My mouth is watering just thinking about diving into the depths of that deep dish of deliciousness.  Then everything was amiss.  The waitress zigs when she should have zagged and delivers the pizza to the table beside us.  “Damn,” I thought, “foiled again.” Those lucky patrons who had seemingly ordered the same pizza were going to be enjoying their feast first.  But then it hit me…these folks already had their entrees.  And the waitress had dropped off the pizza and left just as quickly as my excitement for my ‘za.  The nice couple at the table seemed a bit confused as the gentleman started poking the pizza with his fork as if to inspect.  Something wasn’t right.  He knew it.  And I knew it, too.

After a solid ten minutes, the gentleman got the waitress’ attention and seemed to inform her that this, indeed, was not their pie.  I’m trying to play it cool but I do notice the waitress look over at our table.  She doesn’t know I know, but boy, do I know. I know damn well what’s going on.  She takes the previously poked and prodded pizza and brings it to our table.  She places it quickly and wishes that we “Enjoy!” as she swiftly walks away. At this point I had become so famished that I had decided to ignore the previous inspection by the unofficial slice analyst.  I figured that as long as I got what I came for, I could overlook a few missteps.  Unfortunately, what followed was quite the opposite of joy.  It was cold pizza.  Had it been 1 AM and I was rocked off my marbles, this cold pizza probably would have hit the spot.  But this was not the case.  I look across to my loving ladyfriend and she seemed to have come to the same conclusion, “This is like cold cardboard.”  I couldn’t go out like that.  I couldn’t let her think this is what I was trying to give her.  I couldn’t let her think that this was a representation of my love for her.  So I did what any self-respecting man would do and I politely asked the waitress if we could get a fresh replacement for our poor pie.  She seems unequipped to deal with such a situation as she turns to go ask her manager.  This is where things get dicier than roma tomatoes.

The manager instructs us to put our half-eaten slices back into the pan and he will have the kitchen reheat the pizza.  I assumed he was just confused and misspoke.  I assumed he meant that he would discard the lackluster presentation and bring us a fresh pizza that is up to the high standards that Uno’s typically holds.  My assumptions were misplaced. Our pizza comes back; half-eaten slices still in the pan.  As I take a bite I am overwhelmed with disappointment.  It is maybe one degree warmer than it was previously. At this point, we are so hungry that we give in and decide to eat as much as we can.  It has become clear that no amount of protesting and pleading with management will correct the many mistakes that had been made up to this point.  I ask for another round of drinks to wash the sadness down. We eventually finish eating what we can and realize that we had never received our second round of drinks.  I ask for our check.  It is at this point that the waitress seems to remember our drinks as she brings them back with the check rather than asking if we even still wanted them, seeing as how we were ready to leave.  I expected to have some sort of compensation on the check.  Maybe the pizza taken off the bill.  Maybe the drinks.  Again, these were misplaced assumptions.   Full charge for a half-assed attempt at service and food.  Pizzeria Uno took a numero dos on my heart.

In my haste of leaving the restaurant, I have misplaced my receipt and forgotten the server and manager’s names. I can provide a bank statement detailing the date and time if necessary. I don’t just want compensation.  I want justice.  And I don’t want anyone to go through the pain and anguish that my love and I have endured.  I hope we can make this right.  Please find it in your deep dish hearts to cut a slice of sympathy for a young couple in love trying to make their way through the world, one pie at a time.