Not that long ago, in a neighbourhood not so far away, thrived a small pizzeria called Pizza Boys. Renowned for hand-tossed crusts, this family-run operation eventually changed its name to the more upscale moniker, Ragazzi Bistro. "Ragazzi," literally translated, means "boys" but part of me misses their cavalier birth name. I suppose it's my predilection for the classic and retro, as opposed to the modern (and hence my predisposition to listen to hair metal...but I'll save that one for another day).
A pizza, by any other name, tastes as sweet when it comes from the kitchen of Ragazzi. Stricken by a crippling combination of fatigue and laziness, I ordered a New York Spice pizza and (to my dismay) discovered that they no longer deliver. I muddled my way through traffic, driven (no pun intended) by the promise of melted cheese and tender crust. I traipsed like a half-starved zombie into Ragazzi's recently-renovated dining room.
A mere cardboard take-out box could not contain the beguiling aroma of New York Spice. I raced to the vehicle, locked the doors and wolfed down a slice. Heaven. Perhaps it was the self-contained atmosphere of my hermetically sealed vehicle. Perhaps it was my ravenous hunger. These are indubitably contributing factors, but I attribute my immense enjoyment of said pizza to the high level of skill present in Ragazzi's kitchen. Crispy-tender crust, zesty tomato sauce, bracing spices and an abundant blanket of stretch cheese. This Bonnie Doon spot, name change nonewithstanding, satiates and impresses. The boys are back in town. And they never left in the first place.