I had high hopes as I approached Bisbano's Pizza; certainly, we've all heard of the legendary deliciousness of family-operated, non-chain pizzerias, and the reputation factor in combination with the fact that the building has been staring at me for the past few months each day that I return to my vehicle from class, I thought it a particularly novel idea to stop in and grab a bite. Unfortunately, however, reputations can be deceiving, very much like appearances... Which, while, we're on the subject, is also very characteristic of Bisbano's; the dark wooden, quaint exterior of the building, lined as it is with ornamental gas lamps, gives one the impression that they are surely about to step into an Old World-style bistroesque pizzeria staffed by olive-skinned, black-haired, highly accentuated familial operators. Instead, one encounters a two-bit deli-style decor, complete with seating which has apparently taken the sharp end of the axe over the years and has seen ghettofide repair jobs consisting of... duct tape.
Taking in my surroundings with a sharply drawn breath of shock, I nodded tersely and decided to suffocate my initial distaste and give the place the benefit of the doubt, opting to judge it by merit of its cuisine, which in retrospect, was a terrible idea, as I would have most likely more thoroughly enjoyed my lunch had I stepped out of the door and strolled over to the nearest local Dollar General and picked up a Banquet fish sticks meal; at least it would have only cost me a twelfth of the price for food of roughly the same quality... But I digress.
I was greeted not by the fair Italian maiden Appolonia nor a mustacheoed Sicilian gentleman by the name of Mario but instead a generic American worker... Which is fine, I suppose, if only a bit disappointing for a small ethnic-themed restaurant. Imagine that you open a door labeled as the restroom and find a closet full of spandex with a toilet and sink jammed into the corner, and you might be able to sympathize with my situation this afternoon - Sure, you can still take a piss, but it just doesn't feel right and it certainly wasn't what you were expecting. Nodding politely with a faux amiable grin of my flawlessly aligned teeth which are gleaming white enough to guide ships into harbor, I informally chose whichever seat I wanted at the instruction of my hostess and took the convenience for what it was, shifting colors that I might embrace and bury myself within the casual atmosphere like a pizza-eating chameleon.
All was quiet in the empty pizzeria, to say the least, as I took up my menu and perused the selection. In this segment, I inform the reader that he/she can take off his/her poncho for the time being, because this is the one part of the review in which I spare the restaurant some of its dignity and pause in my metaphorical pissing all over it. For a small, rundown parlor which hasn't had nearly as much luck with secret family recipes as has Bush's Baked Beans, I must admit that Bisbano's does at least have a broad selection of classic Italian items suitable for lunch, ranging from links of sausage to muffalatta sandwiches complete with the standard fare of cured meats; at least they managed to adhere to the implied cuisine, though I can't say that I would have been surprised if they started whipping out the motherfucking haggis at any random moment.
One seemingly positive quality of the local pizzeria which one might immediately notice is the fact that prices are relatively cheap in comparison to other similar venues, but one should keep lessons of the past in mind and remember that Bisbano's is a particularly deceptive vendor, sort of like that crack dealer at the tracks who is always cutting your shit with baking soda. I might describe the viability of prices at Bisbano's as, coining the words of Forrest Gump, "...like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get." Paying a few cents over a single dollar, I was pleased with the fact that I was served a loaf of Wal-Mart frozen packaged bread quality garlic bread, considering that Wal-Mart will typically charge me around two to three dollars for a loaf. Conversely, when I ordered cheese bread for around $3.50, I recieved four small strips of the same garlic bread with a slice of lunchmeat sandwich mozzarella melted onto each which probably summed up to about a half of one of the whole garlic breads, served with a tiny bowl of "marinara" which I'm almost positive is simply the same damned tomato sauce they slather onto their pizza. My advice to you would be to hope that when you pay $5.00 for a poboy, you get two of them rather than the negative outcome of the rolling dice in which you get a bologna sandwich.
The service could be charitably described as "decent," as I did at least receive a refill of my beverage before I had even depleted its contents, but on the opposite end of the spectrum, it seems as if the black hole which sucked away the class of the rest of the establishment also took that of the service staff and patronage with it, as the server commented coarsely in a rhetorical question, "What the hell is going on over there," when refilling my drink as I watched an old, deranged man whom had previously been munching away on a salad curse the day away into his cell phone with the same aggressive spirit as if he were speaking to the boy whom had just deflowered and impregnated his whorish teen daughter.
If nothing else can be said of the comical situation, at least I had a bit of live entertainment during the horrendously long wait for my pizza to come out of the oven, which I found a bit out of place considering that Old Man Piss-Off was the only other patron apart from myself and he had already been served since before the bloody moment I walked into the damn restaurant.
When a steaming hot pizza was finally set before me, I can at least say that I was more than willing to devour it whole. The taste was a bit below average. For a couple of more dollars, I could have savored a pie at Pizza Hut which would have been on an entirely different plane of taste, spitting from its lofty noble position upon the plague-ridden Italian peasant Totino, who would have in-turn spat upon his rabid slave Bisbano in order to assert his own superiority. Fortunately a jar of parmesan was at hand, and so I was at least able to partially drown out the thick and overpowering flavor of my generous portion of fennel seed.
...Okay, so maybe it wasn't as bad as Totino's.
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