Lago D'Argento Italian Pizzeria

Review Noir It was one of those nights when every drinking party ends in a fight. A desert wind was blowing through the streets that night. It was a hot wind that pulled insistently at your clothes and made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. The streets were quieter than a dead cat under the guardrail aside a moonlit mountain road. I was out with my doll and we were lookin' for a time...good, bad, whatever came our way. We were everything a local couple ought to be and we were calling on Lago D'Argento. Lago was exacting, charming and ruthless in the quality of her pies. I was feeling like a kid that likes to pull the legs off of spiders. No more sense of morals than a downtrodden puppy. She's a grifter, a voice barked from the back of my mind. Maybe she is, I thought, but what does this five-dollar special want? Behind the flash, behind the smile, was there nothing but poison under that sauce? I had to know, even if it meant the big sleep by morning. I tried her slices and they were good. No, they were more than good and held that inner truth. You know the truth I'm talkin' about. The truth that makes you aware of just how aware you are. You know the world belongs to men like you, men who act as if it's a right to great pizza. Pizza like this. The truth that tells you the world would be a better place and not too dull to live in if there were more pizza like this around. Because you're a part of it now, see? The crust and the sauce and the cheese and the toppings...they're in you now and you can't go back.