The shop was Giovanni’s, a narrow place with checkerboard tiles and a poster of Napoli that had seen better decades. It sat in a neighborhood where rent never rose but excuses multiplied like stray olives. Giovanni had hired Tony the summer the regulars started complaining that the pies tasted like yesterday’s headlines: overcooked and undercared-for. Tony arrived with a duffel bag, two smiles, and a philosophy: make pizza like you mean it, or don’t bother serving it.
Never die, even in the middle of a Mexican standoff. total overdose pizza trainer