Wiseacre (ewin) wrote,
Wiseacre
ewin

Eat Pray Love

I'm reading Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, a book which has leered at me with cloying bestseller wisdom for months now on the bookstore shelves, because my mom was reading it while we were in New York, and she read me some things from it and recommended it highly.

I've been avoiding it because I've spent years telling myself that I don't like cloying bestseller wisdom.  Frankly, I might after all.  I'm not willing to concede that point just yet.

But this much I can say:  Mom was right, this is some of the best fun I've had in a while.  I'm on page 79 and just had to put the book down because I started laughing so hard.  Gilbert rides perfectly the line between humor and sweetness and spirituality (okay, that's more than one line, but I don't care) and, well, a lot of talk about the gorgeousness of Italian men.

Here's the bit that has me falling over:
... [B]efore I left Rome [my friend Giovanni] gave me the name of a pizzeria in Naples that I had to try, because, Giovanni informed me, it sold the best pizza in Naples.  I found this a wildly exciting prospect, given that the best pizza in Italy is from Naples, and the best pizza in the world is from Italy, which means that this pizzeria must offer... I'm almost too suspicious to say it... the best pizza in the world?  Giovanni passed along the name of the place with such seriousness and intensity, I almost felt like I was being inducted into a secret society.  He pressed the address into the palm of my hand and said, with gravest confidence, "Please go to this pizzeria.  Order the margherita pizza with double mozzarella.  If you do not eat this pizza when you are in Naples, please lie to me later and tell me that you did."

So Sofie and I have come to Pizzeria da Michele, and these pies we have just ordered -- one for each of us -- are making us lose our minds.  I love my pizza so much, in fact, that I have come to believe in my delirium that my pizza might actually love me, in return.  I am having a relationship with this pizza, almost an affair.  Meanwhile, Sofie is practically in tears over hers, she's have a metaphysical crisis about it, she's begging me, "Why do they even bother trying to make pizza in Stockholm?  Why do we even bother eating food at all in Stockholm?"
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