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What amounts to a greasy
pizza shop with a few tables crammed into it, Pomodoro was surprisingly
satisfying for a place with no character whatsoever. Even sadder than
the fact we spent time on a Saturday night in this joint was the fact
we were seated with a nice couple from Israel who were on their honeymoon.
Jeez, nothing like avoiding getting your ass blown up on a bus, only
to be stuck at a table with a bunch of drunk-ass Americans shoving
slices of brick-oven pizza into their holes. Through the haze, I seem
to recall the restaurant being pretty hectic and bustling, but that
may have just been the booze-soaked brain cells colliding in my head.
I also recall talking enough that I didn’t get as much pizza
as I would have liked, but what I did eat gets five stars in the drunken-pizza-chowing
guide to downtown Manhattan. [MF]
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