Yep, I ate here.

It is one of the great ironies of Wisconsin pizza patronage that things that are taken as pizza law elsewhere–that crust should never be able to compared to any cracker (except Carson Daly), that sauce should not be the consistency of the stuff on spaghetti, that pizza should be fluffy yet crispy, not taste like it was microwaved and be made with the best ingredients–are treated as optional here. Which explains how I found myself in a basement restaurant in Minneapolis’ warehouse district at noon on Easter Sunday, eating in a place that can be easily described as “stainless-steel-friendly,” surprised as shit that the pizza was melting my face off for its awesomeness.

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