Let me be clear on this. I don't even want to be sitting here at work writing this but would have rather already begun my commute home. I'd planned on doing so about an hour ago, but whatever. This project has to make it out the door, blah blah blah. I wasn't even supposed to be here at work today. It was supposed to be just me making a trek onto the isle of Manahatta to see my accountant about my taxes and whatnot, drop off a roll of film and turn around and head home. Maybe see Kate. Sounded like a pretty good day last night when I was sitting up at 2 o'clock in the morning trying to figure out where all my money had gone in the past year and I was consoling myself with the relaxed Monday I had in front of me.

No dice though, I don't usually receive calls at 9 in the morning, and while I'd been expecting one from work in re some work I'd done over the weekend, I didn't expect to be getting called into the office to work. It was my boss Teresa. Our last conversation ran pretty much as follows:

"Okay so do you want me to come in on Monday?"
"No, Chris says he'll be back in on Monday."
"Are you sure, just in case anything comes up?"
"Nope. Chris says he's got it covered."
"Alright. You're sure?"
"We've got it covered. Have a good weekend."

No big deal really, I just like to complain. I need the money. I also need to clean my sty of an apartment, but I'll do some of that when I get home.

So I told my boss that I had to go see my accountant, and that I'd come in right after that. Which was too bad because I didn't really think that I would have to make myself half way presentable for him in the same way that I would for work. It might even work in my favor if I looked a bit mussy and underfed, making him work that much harder to squeeze a few more dollars out of my return being that I clearly needed it. ("Please Mr. Accountant, I'm beggin ya! Just enough for a bar of soap and a coupla cans of cat food!") He did a fine job as he always does and I was on my way.

I'd said that I was going to come straight from my accountant's but I wasn't about to give up the opportunity to drop off the two rolls of 120 film at Ben Ness that I'd been carrying around for the past week and a half hoping I'd be in the vicinity during business hours (I'd walked all the way from Bowery & 2nd to University & 13th in the rain on Saturday only to re-discover that they closed at 5 o'clock on weekends). They were open this time and I rolled in and dropped off the film. Not that I think that there'll be anything worth developing on those rolls. I just need something else to write down next year come tax time as a net loss or something.

Leaving Ben Ness I was face-to-face with a slight dilemma. Being that it was already 12:30 or so and I probably wasn't going to be able to step out to grab a bite after I arrived at my offices what with the project now at code orange since neither Chris or I had managed to make it in in the morning and it had to be out by the end of the day. But right there across the street was Stromboli, (University Place btwn. 12th & 13th St.) all too inviting. Did I want to have yet another slice of pizza. Keeping this diary has only made me that much more conscious of just how much pizza I eat and so I was feeling a bit self-conscious about this. Plus I think that I'd managed to convince myself that there was something wrong with Stromboli's pizza since I'd made my original Stromboli entry. But I'll tell you something. I think that while that the slices I had there might have been a bit too sweet I was really looking more for some way of being critical of their pizza so I would have something to write about, some way of indicating that I had a discerning palate when it comes to pizza.

While this may be the case. I may actually have a discerning palate when it comes to pizza, I think that it should be emphasized that with any decent pizzeria, there are going to be good days and bad days. Good slices and not so good slices. And that there really can never be a true hierarchy of pizzerias in New York. There is no "Best Pizzeria." Or at least there is no "Best Pizzeria" unless you tell me what it is and I disagree with you.

I was only going to have one slice to carry up to the subway, but then I got in there and their slices looked so delicious that I decided I would have one now and take one with me. I placed my order with the guy, explaining that I'd want one to go and one on a plate for right now. And that he didn't have to heat the one to go, and I didn't need to the one for right now too hot. I never want my pizza too hot. What's the point?

So he heats up one slice, I pay the man, gather some napkins for the walk and wait. And after a couple of minutes he pulls the slice out of the oven and puts it before me. Okay, that's one slice, I'm thinking. Where's my other one. So I ask and he explains that he thought that I was going to eat the slice there and that he'd give me the second one in the bag when I was finished. Which I appreciated. I thought that that was fairly considerate of him. But I wasn't going to stay so he put it in the bag and I split.

The last time I was in Stromboli there was a man there with his little daughter and her daughter's friend. He was telling the man behind the counter that she thought that Stromboli's pizza was the best pizza in New York. I might have taken issue with the little girl and her limited range of experience when it comes to New York pizzerias, but I kept in mind the fact that little girls of that age are generally given to a certain degree of hyperbole, especially when it comes to "bests" of one kind or another. But the slices that I got from Stromboli were quite good and I was reminded that I really like Stromboli's pizza (had I really ever forgotten?). I ate that one slice on my way to the subway station, pausing briefly trying to balance the slice outside of the bag on top of the one in the bag while I got my camera out so I could take this picture of Stromboli in the daytime. I had to stand in a doorway to avoid some of the wind which was blasting up University Place, threatening to dislodge my slice from where I'd managed to balance it somewhat precariously.

As I said, the slice was quite good. Not too sweet, tangy sauce, held together well, a nice crust, not too firm not too soft rounded out with a smooth mozzarella. Actually, I need to put some more time into exploring the flavors in Stromboli's mozzarella since it's the sauce that really stands out in a Stromboli slice, the recipe for which, I've learned, had to be bought along with the store whenever it has changed hands over the years.

And if there's any doubt about the quality of Stromboli's pizza, if for whatever reason you've come to distrust the palate of this reviewer, seeing it as fickle or even perhaps whimsicle, you might consider the reactions of my office mates upon learning that I had a slice of Stromboli pizza in the white paper bag I was bringing to the kitchen to re-heat (we have a convection toaster oven that does the trick perfectly). Jen's eyes widened and her mouth dropped slightly with clear envy, and Joann could be heard making an audible "Mmmm" sound from behind her cubicle, even though she was only eavesdropping on our conversation.

Think on that for a moment. The pleasure to be potentially extracted from a slice of Stromboli's pizza was enough to cause Joann to reveal just what a nosy-body she truly is.