All my life I’ve heard “Just scrape it off” whenever a restaurant screwed up my very clearly specified order. Mayo and cheese were the biggest offenders. Then there was “Pick it off,” in the case of sausage or pepperoni on the communal pizza. I pretty much always refused, preferring to go hungry. And today I feel a sense of vindication for all those years of seeming like a prissy bitch. Vindication and nausea.
Tonight we ordered pizza, a build-your-own affair from Hammy’s, where you choose your base and toppings and you get the perfect little personal pizza. Well, I forgot one major piece of information when placing my order: NO CHEESE. I forgot the cheese comes standard. So after getting all excited about pizza I didn’t have to make, we were face to face with a mozzarella mess.
In a practical sense, it was a “damage done” situation, so I wouldn’t feel guilty eating the cheese. But after years of not ingesting even the teensiest bit o’ dairy, I figured it would make us both sick. Then again, to toss the pizza seemed stupid and wasteful, so we spent way too much time armed with forks, pulling off bits of already solidified cheese. Gross, yeah, and it didn’t erase the cheesy oils that had already baked into the crust.
So now we’re a little queasy and I feel like a total idiot. Psychological or not, we both feel like crap, even with the aid of our friend ginger ale. I guess there’s one mistake we’re pretty much guaranteed to never make again.