We are at Nomad Pizza. As residents of North Carolina we typically have to drive twenty minutes for a good pizza. But tonight we are in luck, we’re in Philadelphia in the Northeast United States where if they’re fluent in one thing it’s douchebag. But fortunately for us they’re fluent in two things and pizza is the other. Just around the corner from our hotel is Nomad Pizza and if our research proves correct, they have legit pies and we’re able to walk there. http://www.nomadpizzaco.com/philadelphia.html
Yelp I think I need somebody
Do you Yelp? I’m a Yelp slut. I don’t do reviews (often) I think I’ve written 3 or maybe 4 over the years. Truth is I rarely ever sign in. However I do peruse every style of dining I can think of before we leave for any intended destination. How would that look if I was unable to find a pate’ bahn mi at 3 AM on a Monday night, in Hoboken, New Jersey? That would seem rather unprofessional, no? So as usual I pored over the Yelp boards before our trip to Philly and Nomad Pizza seemed to be held in high regard with locals & tourists alike. That is often important because sometimes locals can hold local spots with a little higher regard than necessary and frankly vice versa, it could be said. Or in this case read.
We step inside the auspicious exterior, the almost strip mall like appearance failed to prepare us for the clean, modern, industrial, meets linear, hyper, trendy interior. It’s probably a ten foot walk to the bar from the front door. I dare you to try and stop us. Haha you’re too late. We’re long gone from Nomad Pizza, I don’t blog live, as I find it an incredible strain on my head to consider myself in more than one place at once. Did that make sense? As my readership consists of two high functioning alcoholics and Mort, the editor I keep chained out back. (We got him cheap as apparently two string cheese sticks, a slice of pepperoni and an apple peel was way more than he was paid at the New Yorker.) I don’t care.
We bellied up to the bar. Isn’t that a strange word, bellied? Who the fuck actually belly’s? On second thought we’ve never bellied up to anything, ever. If we ever did, we would expect a big fuckin’ tip. So we sat at the bar, ordered two Victory Prima Pilsners, and a cream of cauliflower soup. Yeah, that’s right beer and soup, it was good too. Creamy and delicious, this soup doesn’t taste healthy, just comforting, garnished with a drizzle of olive oil it was a worthy dance partner to the pilsners. http://www.victorybeer.com/
We ordered pizza. When you’re in a restaurant that has a particular food in the name, such as Nomad Pizza, that particular food is probably your best bet. With that in mind we ordered the spicy sausage pie to wash down with a Brooklyn Lager back at the hotel. Described as Italian tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, fennel sausage, caramelized onion and basil, what else can I say? Get this to my mouth immediately, I find myself thinking. Fennel sausage is bomb.
Don’t meth with Erin
The bartender Erin is friendly, we chat while we wait for the pizza. Erin tells us a story; one night a yellow lady came in to the bar and drank mightily. Cocktail followed cocktail until her bar tab was well over $100.00. Erin went to the kitchen and when she came back, the yellow lady was gone, her tab still outstanding.
The next night the yellow lady comes back into the bar and as meth heads tend to be, she was easily recognizable. Especially recognizable, since she skipped out on her gigantic bar tab the previous evening. When Erin confronts her, she maintains that Erin is mistaken and that it was a different yellow, meth head that ran up the bar tab and left without paying. Ah but Erin the bartender is not a meth head and as such is clearly the yellow lady’s intellectual superior. Soon yellow lady admitted it was in fact her that ran up the bar tab and left without paying. So she offered to pay for the tab, would Erin accept meth rocks as payment?
No she wouldn’t, Erin the bartender, and Nomad Pizza, don’t meth around. We paid our tab in cash, took the pizza back to the hotel and washed it down with Brooklyn Lagers. The pizza was bomb, crisp crust, generous with pleasantly acidic tomato sauce, salty creamy fresh mozzarella and unctuous fennel sausage. All of that offset by sweet caramelized onion and the properly herbaceous addition of basil, everything you’d expect in a pie. I knew that sausage would be bomb. Thanks Erin.
Coming soon: more half witticisms in the city of brotherly love @ Philadelphia’s Green Egg Café, until then hasta burrito.- The Pot & Pan Handler