Monday Pizza

When I open my refrigerator in search of coffee creamer one morning, I’m greeted by a box of leftover pizza. Its presence is a keepsake from a rainy Monday evening, one I didn’t intend to do anything with until I found myself on the 6 train downtown.

That afternoon brought the variety of umbrella-flipping, hair-whipping weather that begs you to return home to bed. However, those acquainted with the New York City restaurant rat race will understand that there is no better day to walk into SoHo’s hottest pizza parlor.

The brick oven’s warmth wrapped its arms around us as we entered, pulling us from the bitter cold as the door slammed shut. The aroma of baking bread guided us to two open bar stools, proving our bravery in the face of the elements worthwhile. We sank deeper into cozy conversation with each glass of house red and slice of pizza, swimming in the candlelit spell of an unassuming Monday.

We wandered into the tavern across the street three hours later, not ready for our evening to end. The bartender never let us see the bottom of our free popcorn basket. He insisted on serving his specialty: a cocktail of Miller High Life and Aperol, officially known as a “Sphaghett,” affectionately nicknamed the “Poor Man’s Aperol Spritz.” We sipped on our nightcap as the rain outside softened to a mist.