Slice of Life

Money is (yes, again) increasingly tight.

Last week, when my unlimited MetroCard ran out, I decided I could only purchase single fares and -- even then -- only when absolutely necessary, which pretty much eliminated my ability to make discretionary visits to far-flung parts of the city.

Fortunately, within a day or so of this belt-tightening measure's implementation, I found a MetroCard on the floor in Starbucks that turned out to have $32 on it. After I found out how much was on it, I gave the counter girls my number, so if anyone came in asking for the card, I could return it, but -- oh, happy day! -- I never got a call.

Frugality was still the order of the day, however, and as far as I can recall, I made no discretionary trips since finding the card.

Until yesterday.

For some reason, I felt moved to get off a train I was on and explore the Ditmars section of Astoria, Queens. Even when I'd cat-sat for my (then-)Astoria-based friend Becky Ebenkamp, I hadn't explored this part of the nabe, though she always referred to it as "wacky" or something like that.

It wasn't wacky but it was charming with nice, little shops and nice, little people. (Okay, they weren't all little. But I liked the sound of that sentence.) One of the members of the New York City Council had his law office there (shared with his dad, the former council president). There were two designy (one of them, anyway) new Thai places mixed in with the old Greek places and also more ethnically generic businesses.

The best place I found was a little, Italian bakery, run by little Italians (there I go again). It made great looking breads and things and, at a counter in the back, a maybe 60-something Italian woman (and yes, she was kinda little) served pizza.

Wow! Pizza from a real ethnic bakery, not a pizza place. Maybe it would be like you'd get in Italy (but not New York's Little Italy, which is basically for tourists) or at someone's house. I had to try it.

But.

Money.

Yes, it's true. I couldn't even afford to spend the (max) two dollars to get a slice of what might have been the most authentic pizza I'd ever had. It tried to tell myself I'd come back sometime but what if the place went out of business? That's what happened to the '70s-style, orange-colored greasy spoon I'd always intended to eat at on Steinway St. (also in Astoria).

I continued my exploration of the area and -- before I left -- I bit the bullet and spent the buck eighty-five on a perfectly (within reason) square slice of Sicilian pizza. (I needed something to wash from my mouth the taste of the recently bitten bullet.)

Now, I'm used to Sicilian being thick crust and doughy but this was thin-crusted, kind of like what's being sold around town as a "Grandma Slice" but without the fresh mozzarella. This makes sense because a Grandma slice is purportedly similar to homemade and here was some (presumably) grandma in a little family shop servin' up her thing. (Well, alright.)

At first bite, it was kind of ordinary, though not in a bad way. But by the time I finished the relatively small slice, I felt I had had something intensely pleasing and satisfying. I wanted another one. But I had already put a crimp in my ability to survive with the first extravagant purchase.

I had to get out of Ditmars before I did something crazy.