Pregnant Pause

There is a place in Studio City that I heard about when I was twelve. Eye on LA did a spot on it, or maybe it was Huell Howser. This place makes great pizza, but it is famous for its salad that supposedly induces labor in expectant mothers.

I was the last to know I was gay, so when I was twelve, I just assumed that someday in high school, I'd take my overdue girlfriend, with some gloves and hot water to Caioti Pizza for "the Salad" and do it right there.

Plans changed.

I finally went last night with my overdue friend Crystal and her husband the Smoker. Not at all what I thought it was going to be.

My expectations after 20 plus years:
Big place that feels like a HUGE party is going on, feels a lot like Chevy's on meth. Wall of polaroids of women with big bellies, women with babies, women with twins, each marked with sharpies bearing the names, dates, poundage, etc. I also expected that each time someone ordered "the Salad" about eight or so wait staff would escort it to the pregnant patron, with sparklers and a catchy clapping jingle.

What is:
Tiny fucking place. Two servers, both as useful as armadillos with iphones. No babies, no polaroids. No fanfare, no sparklers.

Great Pizza. Great Roasted Beet Salad.

Here is the link:

http://www.maternitysalad.com/home.html

And you tell me if I was wrong to expect a trough of babies.

And one more thing, Crystal is still waiting.

*****

For your listening pleasure, ABBA.