A quick lesson in Italian: if the question is “Pomodoro?” your answer should always be, “No!” We had our worst Italian meal ever at Pomodoro the other night — and given some of the bad Italian I’ve eaten over the years, that’s saying something.
When Clyde, P., and I sauntered in on a warm spring evening, the outdoor tables at this Virginia Highland eatery (located, conveniently, right next door to the wonderful Yoforia) were packed. We snagged a table just inside the door, ordered fried mozz, and contemplated the menu.
Our server suggested the special — scallops and risotto — but neglected to mention the price. Friend P. called him out on it, though, and we learned, with some amusement, that the special was, indeed, pretty special — especially for the owner, since it was the most expensive item on the menu.
P. and I ordered pizzas, but Clyde, in the mood for seafood, lined the owner’s pockets by ordering the special. While we waited on our dishes, we distracted ourselves with some heavy, cake-y squares of bread and a stingy serving of frozen breaded mozzarella sticks.
When they arrived, the pizza pies looked good enough to eat — but their beauty, alas, was only topping deep. The crust was soft, floppy, and gummy, with a strong, strange, overpowering herbal taste. Generally, I agree with the pizza rule expressed by Stephen Baldwin in the 1980’s flick, Threeway (“Sex is like pizza — even when it’s bad, it’s pretty good.”) This pizza, however, scored so high on the suckage scale, I couldn’t stomach more than two slices before pushing the plate away.
As bad as my pizza was, poor Clyde’s risotto was worse. Instead of anything remotely “special,” he received a sticky mound of mushy, overcooked pasta swimming in what must have been a half-cup of oil. Two lonesome brown scallops capped the stack. Adding insult to injury was the price: eighteen bucks.
We politely turned down offers for boxes and dashed next door, where we gratefully cleansed our palettes with chilly, delicious Yoforia.
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