Pizza Express
Last night my boyfriend and I visited Pizza Express in Richmond. Good old reliable Pizza Express. Upon arrival I knew something was amiss. Darker than a seedy corner of Faces, we were greeted by a day-glo T-shirt wearing waitress, “Are we in Pizza Express?” I ventured. She confirmed that we were indeed in said pizza chain. After being escorted to our table, slap bang in the middle of the relatively empty restaurant, I struggled to see my boyfriend’s face in the dark, let alone read the menu. Thankfully I know I can always fall back on the classic P.E Pollo salad. Oh right, it’s not on the menu anymore. Thanks. I was suddenly aware of a booming in my head. Initially putting this down to a blood vessel of rage beating its way out of my temple at the lack of chicken and goats cheese in my main course, I realised it was actually the music. THE MUSIC. Whoever told Pizza express that Rihanna’s Rude Boy or Get Low by Lil Jon at full blast is appropriate dining music needs to have their ecstasy confiscated. Forgetting we were at a restaurant we considered getting the Sambuca’s in. The elderly couple next to us didn’t know what was going on. We didn’t know what was going on. We all looked longingly at the door waiting for Jamie Cullum to walk in and put us out of our misery. Instead Calvin Harris rocked up and offered us some chilli oil. As Pizza Express had attacked and offended every sense we possessed we inhaled our dinners and left. I think the moral of the story is, if it aint broke, don’t turn it into an under 18’s club night. Next time we’ll go to Frankie and Benny’s purely for the comparably relaxed ambience.
From the window…. To the wall…. Til the sweat drip down my dough balls….
