Once upon a time, a traveler entered a nondescript pizza palace. On each of the red-and-white clothed tables were squat shakers of parmesan cheese and crushed red pepper. The air smelled of garlic, oregano, and all the trappings of traditional East Coast pizzerias.
The traveler approached the counter, surveying the options available. Pepperoni sounded good. “Shopkeep! I’d like a pepperoni slice, if you will.”
A mustachioed man, wiping his hands on a stained, white apron, waddled out from the kitchen. His name tag read: Sal. “You want that to go?”
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