The Pizza Incident

We stop for a beer and discuss what we would like to eat. I feel like eating pizza. A nice, simple Margherita pizza. That will be easy to find. There is an advert in a tourist leaflet about an Italian round the corner from a bar we are in and decide to have a look. The district where it is located is in Jardins, which is reportedly one of the more pleasant neighbourhoods in Sao Paulo. We are quite peckish so head towards it, but it takes a lot longer than we expected. When we get there we look at the menu and each pasta dish is at least £30. Thirty quid for Spaghetti Bolognese? You-are-having-a-laugh. We ask if they serve pizza and are told a firm no while we are looked upon as peasants. OK then, there must be somewhere else that services pizza round here – it can’t be that hard to find, one of the most commonly served foods in the whole world…in the third biggest city.

We walk a little further and stop at a bar/restaurant selling a range of things including pizza. At last, a sit down, a drink and some food. We order some steak for the mister and a Margherita pizza for myself. The young waiter who is dressed in a throw back fifties outfit like the guy in the café from Back to the Future (he looks odd because all his colleagues are dressed in normal clothing) takes our order and disappears. Sometime later we get some beer…then we wait..and wait…and wait.

After half an hour we are wondering where are bloody food is and are tittering on the stage of hanger… we enquire where are food might be to another waiter who tells us that they are not serving food anymore and that they don’t serve pizza in the evenings anyway.  What's that sorry? The mister then has a tense conversation with the manager who apologises for the fuck up, shouts at fifties throw back and tells us that we will get the food anyway. I want to go but the Mister has reached desperate hangry mode and needs to stay. 15 minutes later some steak arrives…which me and the mister share because I feel myself resembling a hypoglycemic.  There is no pizza. I want to leave. I am getting really angry now and Mr Manager can see it in my face. He gets down on his knees, as though he is begging for forgiveness and tells me it’s coming for the fifth time in twenty minutes. How long does a fucking pizza take to make in Brazil anyway? Five minutes later the chef comes out and tells me that they don’t have Margherita, despite it being on the menu but I can have it with bacon on it.

WHHHAT? Is this man an actual chef or has he just been dragged off the street? Has he even ever SEEN a pizza? Because, he clearly is unaware that a Margherita pizza consists of cheese, tomato and a bread base – it is the basis for all pizzas. I am so pissed off, I say nothing, scowl, pay for my drinks and walk out.

By 22.00 I still haven’t eaten – we go to a pizza restaurant round the corner from our hotel. The pizza comes within 10 minutes (bit suspect to me, but past caring), which is basically a pizza base with about three inches of mozzarella on it...and about a droplet of tomato sauce.

The next day we leave Sao Paulo. We haven’t taken any photos but find a suitable one at the bus station which sums up the way we feel about the place.