Locals Only: The Space That Eats Pizzerias

Just a short bike ride up the hill from Casa de Jetpacks, across the street from the Baptist church that flashes damning messages on its marquee to the local heathens, is a small cluster of shops that includes a grocery store, a dog groomer, a dance studio, a pharmacy, a Subway, a pool supply store, a liquor store, a Wendy's, a veterinarian, a convenience store and a hair salon. There is also a space apparently reserved just for pizzerias. In the six years I have lived in the area, it has been Anthony's, Antonio's, Alberto's and Victorio's. Each of these incarnations billed themselves as a "Ristorante/Pizzeria" with some sort of claim to "New York Style." I suspect the names were made up, since Alberto's was owned by a Serbian who employed Czech and Ukrainian waitresses and a Bolivian chef, but they played the Italian stereotype thing well. For many months in any given year, the space stands empty, daring the next entrepreneur to make a go of it. Christopher has accepted the challenge.

Like some modern day Arthur, Christopher is hoping to extract the fabled profit from this hard rock of a location where many other brave restaurateurs have failed. He is convinced that he alone is the One True King of Pizza who will rise above the countless "New York Style" pizzerias that pepper every strip mall in Florida. I really hope Chris makes it work. We tried his offerings last night and it was the exact same food the previous pizza pretenders created, the usual fare associated with such places; veal Marsala, eggplant Parmesan, fried calamari, pizza and pasta. They delivered. It was good.

While he has apparently simply made copies of the previous restaurants' menus, there is one thing Chris is doing differently that should work in his favor. I stopped in on the way home from work to grab a menu, and to my surprise there were no Chianti bottles on the tables with dripping candles stuck in them. I didn't see any "We Will Never Forget" 9/11 posters. There were none of those poorly painted Tuscan landscapes or faux brick windows adorned in painted vines and grapes. I didn't hear Frank "The Wank" Sinatra in the overhead music. No pictures of Stallone, Dean Martin, Pacino or De Niro. No Sopranos, no Godfather and no old Empire State license plates hanging on the walls.

Good luck, Christopher, if that's your real name.

Previously in Locals Only.