On Gina’s

I’m a New York transplant. We know pizza.

So last evening I was walking around Laguna Niguel when I passed the storefront of a vanquished local pizza joint gone dark.

And, in the window, hung the above sign.

Yes, Gina’s is coming to town.

A most heinous day of reckoning it is.

And this is not political. In fact, it’s not even particularly civic. It is merely the Code Red warning of a born-and-raised New Yorker who knows how to order two slices and a Coke; who knows the proper amount of grease to drip off the tip; who would rather lick the sidewalk than stop for pizza at a Sbarro’s or Chuck E. Cheese.

To you dear readers, I offer this declaration: Gina’s ain’t it.

Seriously, Gina’s ain’t it. It’s pizza, in the way “Police Academy III” was a movie. It’s pizza, in the way “Ted Cruz” is a man. Or, put different: What do you get when you combine shitty sauce, processed cheese, tasteless crust and the charm of an arm pit?

Gina’s.

So, yeah. I don’t know what measures were taken in the LA Times poll; I don’t know if those surveyed lack tongues; I don’t know if, perhaps, this state thinks Gina’s is high-level pizza.

But it’s profoundly bad.

Thank you.