The Husband had to come downtown for a meeting yesterday, so we agreed that it was a great opportunity to have dinner at The Hornero. It's a tiny bistro at Yonge and College that makes amazing thin crust pizza in a wood-burning oven.
We're perusing the menu.
Looking at the long list of pizzas they make.
Each pizza is numbered.
We debated about several pizzas,
then narrowed it down to
#5, #6 and #15.
Then TH spies #9
which was a blend of cheeses,
I couldn't pass that up.
Next, we move onto appetizers.
Insalata Caprese is my favourite.
And, as you may have guessed,
my mind starts to wander.
Me: "What's my pizza number again?"
Hey, I sez to myself.
Isn't his pizza six?
You can see where I'm going with this ...
and I lean towards him, grinning,
ready to impart this brilliant comedy.
He looks at me.
His eyes narrow.
TH: "Did you fart?!"
TH: "You have that look on your face that guys get when they've just let one go and they know it's gonna stink up the place, but they're not going to admit it, but they want to share it with their friends ..."