I was drunk. Staggeringly drunk! I checked into the hotel (not important which one) and face planted on the bed. I woke up about two hours later a little disillusioned and foaming at the mouth and decided I needed to get some food in me. I called down to the front table and asked about a pizza place and they gave me the number for Regal Café Pizzeria, 34 State St. Boston MA. I’m giving you the address because I never want you to accidently stumble into this abomination. If I knew what it looked like, I’d send you a picture. But all I have is my story.
So anyway, I called them up and made an order for a pizza. They didn’t mention a price and I was a little too disorientated to ask. The unreasonably angry woman then told me that I had to order a side so I ordered some chicken wings. Two hours later and I didn’t see nor hear any part of my food. I kept thinking that it was alcohol that was so clearly swimming in my veins that was preventing me from comprehending what was going on but I simply couldn’t wrap my head around why I had been sitting by the phone for two hours and I didn’t have any food yet. I couldn’t remember the number but thankfully redial is a thing. I called them up, the phone rang right up until it was about to cut off and then the inordinately angry woman answered again. I said something along the lines of “where is my pizza?” and Jesus you’d think that I insulted her grandmother’s ashes because the crap-storm of cursing and yelling that I was greeted with was truly amazing. She then hung up the phone and left me to sit there, just as confused. Another hour went by and it finally arrived. The level of excitement I felt was like nothing else you’ve ever seen. If I recall correctly I was literally jumping up and down and clapping my hands.
However, my celebration was in vain. See the pizza came in a gigantic box, but the pizza itself was only slightly bigger than my palm. The minute I opened the box, the whole room was filled with this horrendous smell of feet and stale food. But by this point, I was now so hungry and so drunk, I fought back my gag-reflex and took a bite. Oh, what a mistake! It tasted awful, like shoe covered in mold. I spat it out right there on the floor (sorry room service people) and then retreated to the bathroom to empty my stomach of the cocktail it had so graciously been holding. I would love to comment on the wings but, they never came. I didn’t complain that night because I was too busy being violently sick, but in the morning, it was a different story. I checked the bank app on my phone to check the damage I’d racked up at the bar, only to find it had been outdone by the $65 charge from the house of horrors pizza joint. It was my turn to swear over the phone, but I never got my money back.