Christian and I have become obsessed with an Italian restaurant we saw the other day while going for a walk. It looks like an Irish pub from the outside and all the signage says “Lunch Dinner Pizza,” as if to imply pizza is a meal unto itself, to be added to the cannon of breakfast, lunch, and dinner (on which point we are in agreement: yes, pizza is such a thing). The name of the place is Il Pirata, which is Italian for “The Pirate,” so we’ve just been imagining these shitty, local cable commercials starring a sweaty, mustachioed man desperately trying to get people to come to his pirate-themed Italian restaurant that looks like an Irish pub. “Come on down to Il Pirata for Buccaneer Tuesdays, where the beers are a buck-a-beer.” Animatronic pirates singing old Italian sea-shanties strewn about the place. Emily was annoyed with us all day.
"Come on down to Il Pirata, where X marks the pizza!"
"Il Pirata, home of the brunch pizza. Pizza… for BRUNCH!"