To be fair, I don’t really eat there that much to begin with, even though I do, in fact, live in Bushwick. What was once a fun province of date nights and brunches (note: fancy-ish pizza tends to make sort of a weird brunch food, anyway) is now too, too much.
I’ve thought this and kept it to myself for a while, after too many pissy notifications that the wait will be 3 hours, waiters who’ve turned and left while people at the table were in the middle of ordering, and nights spent contemplating whether the embarrassing gauntlet of asking for the “Erryday I’m Brusselin'” pizza by name is really worth it. Whether or not the usual Roberta’s thing is worth dealing with is basically a matter of personal taste, since their pizza, obviously, is irreproachably delicious. But over the weekend, there was this:
Now, before I start complaining about this (probably very nice and otherwise upstanding, I’m sure) naked lady who put a bare human ass in close proximity to expensive food being consumed by the public in a business that is presumably subject to health codes, let’s note that this isn’t some kind of blanket “god, HIPSTERS and their STUNTS” thing. I don’t really care that much about that. No no, this is a good, old-fashioned, pearl-clutching, fist-shaking customer service screed.
Get it together, Roberta’s. Think of the first dates that could have been made excruciating by this! Not to mention the “hey mom and dad, here’s my neighborhood, I promise it is not a terrible joke of a place” dinners! Jesus. I shudder to think of it. But, then again, I don’t necessarily have all the answers. I guess it was her last day working, and that’s funny enough, and no one seems to have left in a huff or contracted food poisoning by virtue of a bare human ass in proximity to their expensive food. It all seems to have gone reasonably ok, other than the woman, who, per Max Read’s account of the evening over at Gawker, got all riled up about table space in the waiting area and called a member of his party a “whore,” which seems like sort of a blip.
But regardless, until I have solid proof that this kind of nonsense isn’t happening anymore (or, you know, my friends overrule me about where to go for dinner), I’m out. I’ll be nearby at Verde, the other (cheaper, less crowded) coal oven pizza place in the neighborhood, and I’ll be staying there. Unless my waiter drops trou.
Follow Virginia K. Smith on Twitter @vksmith.