Propeller Skies

Recurring Prizzo Skeezy characters Hunter, The Photographer, and I ate dinner at The Pizza Joint in downtown Augusta. We briefly considered getting our grub on at the Mellow Mushroom down the street, but concluded there was no point in driving hella far OTP just to eat at a chain with 1.2 billion cookie cutter locations in the ATL.

After sitting on our asses and being ignored, we concluded that no service is provided outside on the patio. Soon after going inside and sitting down, a waitress was taking our drink orders. Lesson learned: go inside for service.

the food

Our second mistake, after sitting outside and expecting service, was to order the bruschetta. The alleged brushcetta sucked harder than an Oreck XL21. Apparently, the cooks are not aware that heat needs to be applied to the bruschetta at some point during the preparation procedure.

After spiritedly discussing toppings for an hour and a half, we ordered a pie. In contrast to the bootleg bruschetta, the pizza was surprisingly delicious. Despite the lack of service outside and non-toasted bruschetta, The Pizza Joint is recommended.

the booze

The Pizza Joint had a wide selection of beers available, especially for Augusta. Because I crave India Pale Ales (IPA) like Paris Hilton craves attention, I ordered a Samuel Smith’s IPA. As my vast IPA experience is limited to American style IPAs, I was excited to try an IPA from the old country. Samuel Smith’s IPA was mighty tasty, although not quite as hopped up as its American counterparts. I liked it so much that I ordered another. Samuel Smith’s India Pale Ale is highly recommended.

ambiance

The ambiance was generic pizza parlor. More burberry would kick it up a notch. Or maybe scantily clad women dancing in cages.

Recurring Propeller Skies character The Photographer and I rolled out to the AUG to hang with recurring Prizzo Skeezy character Hunter. Shortly after arriving in Augusta, we piled into Hunter’s shiny new truck and headed downtown to Nacho Mama’s for lunch.

While Nacho Mama’s burritos are not authentic in the style of Willy’s or Freebirds, they are totally fucking zesty. I had the Havana burrito and a Red Stripe. My burrito was filled with plenty of shrimp and was loaded with flavor. The Red Stripe was pretty much a Red Stripe, but refreshing after a two hour drive.

The ambiance at Nacho Mama’s was excellent, for a burrito joint. Funky pieces by local artists adorn the walls, and the eatery is in a historic building, which has been nicely restored.

Nacho Mama’s is highly recommended. Any Propeller Skies readers lucky enough to find themselves in the AUG should definitely hit Nacho Mama’s for some tasty grub.

For my final dinner in Pittsburgh, I stopped by August Henry’s. While there, I had an East End Big Hop, the worst beer of my stay in the PGH. East End Big Hop might also be the most disgusting beer I have ever sampled. Shit tasted like butt sweat off a dead cat. However, it was on tap, so it is possible the lines were dirty and East End Big Hop is actually a decent brew.

In contrast to the horrible beer, dinner was quite tasty. Because August Henry’s is a pub, I ordered pub food - a bacon cheeseburger and fries - and was not disappointed. August Henry’s is recommended.

The day after the binge at the Ale House, my hungover ass paid a visit to Six Penn Kitchen for lunch. The restaurant was in a great loft style space with excellent fucking ambiance. Fortunately, all this ambiance was in Pittsburgh so no condescending hostesses gave me shit about rolling up unshaven, unshowered, and wearing shorts and a t-shirt.

I ordered the fish and chips, which was good, but not great. However, the waiter was quick with the refills on Coke and water. Overall, I enjoyed Six Penn Kitchen, but not enough to unequivocally recommend it.

While Fellini’s and Nick’s Pizza Stop produce reasonable facsimiles, pizza in the south just is not real pizza. So, while chilling in Pittsburgh, I made it a priority to consume some decent pizza.

Villa Real is an authentic northeastern pizza joint. The interior is dimly lit and a patina of age hangs on the walls. Service was snappy and the two slices I ordered came loaded with cheese, pepperoni, and flavor. The crust was thin, like it should be.

Villa Real is exquisite and highly recommended. Any Prizzo Skeezy readers visiting the PGH should stop by for sure.

At Bravo Franco’s, I ordered veal for dinner. Mostly because the thought of torturing cows amuses me. Cows are quite possibly one of the stupidest animals in existence - only slightly smarter than the average Atlanta driver - and deserve their fate. Also, veal tastes good. The veal Parmesan was tender and did not disappoint. I also had a mighty tasty side of garlic mashed potatoes.

For dessert, I requested a cannoli. I am not sure what the fuck I was served, but it was an abomination against all that is good and right. The cannoli itself was tasty. Unfortunately, it came with loads of superfluous shit. Raisins, strawberries, whipped cream, and chocolate sauce have no place on cannolis.

Despite the ridiculous flair attached to the cannoli, Bravo Franco’s is recommended. I had a good meal, almost equal to Alfredo’s. Additionally, the staff is fantastic.

Before The Republican was too fucking cool to hang around with us, The Photographer and I joined her at Utopia for tapas and drinks. For Prizzo Skeezy readers not located in Atlanta, tapas is Spanish for rip off. Since I do not like dropping thirty dollars and leaving hungry, I did not sample the food. Unlike the Studio Grille, Utopia had ambiance out the motherfucking trapdoor. There was so much high design ambiance, that by the time I left I was intimate with my feminine side, not just in touch with it.

the drinks

Nothing infuriates me more than douchebag establishments that produce Martini lists. There is no such thing as a fucking Martini list, because a Martini is gin, vermouth, and a twist. Period. Everything else falls under the rubric of cocktail. Unfortunately, marketing fucktards are convinced that the magic word Martini sells substantially more overpriced sickly sweet concoctions than the more pedestrian word cocktail. Goddamn wankers. In protest, I drank beer, which tasted perfectly fine. My companions enjoyed their cocktails.

Despite the dip shit Martini list and lack of real food, I had a good time at Utopia. For people who like techno music, Utopia is recommended.

[This review is rather pointless, since Smoove took so fucking long to write it that the goddamn place went out of business in the meantime. But we be running short of content up in this bitch, so here it is anyway - Ed.]

After shooting some flicks, The Republican, The Beaver, and I rolled into the Studio Grille. We ordered some drinks, which were nice and strong, and glanced at the menu. Maryland farmer, the Studio Grille is overpriced. A 10 dollar hamburger - what the fuck? This is Atlanta, not London. In addition to affordability, the Studio Grille also lacked substantial ambiance. We finished our drinks and moseyed down the street to Slice.

As background for my Swedish readers, The Colonnade is an Atlanta institution located on Cheshire Bridge Road*. The restaurant serves food indigenous to the American south. This can include such disgusting dishes as collard greens and okra, however a limited number of southern foods are fit for human consumption.

the first colonnade trip

Fuck. The Colonnade is not in the GPS, therefore I can’t go. Never mind, a cracka needs to learn to spell is all. I turn right after 300 yards into a fucking monsoon**. Eventually, I manage to meet The Republican, The Photographer, Mizzo, and Deezy for dinner at The Colonnade. I order and consume some type of fried fish. What kind is irrelevant***, after getting battered and fried it all tastes the same anyway. I choose macaroni and cheese as a side, which is stellar. My other side was sweet potato fries. They are most excellent.

colonnade trip number two

On my second trip to The Colonnade, I get fucking nuts and request some other type of fried fish. Again, the fish and sides are mighty tasty.

the point

The Colonnade is recommended. However, the institution is full of geezers. Also, keep in mind The Colonnade is stuck in 1952 and does NOT accept credit cards. Apparently they had this strange thing called cash back then and that is the only way to pay.

notes:

* Which alert readers will recognize as THE Atlanta porn destination.
** Relevant because Atlantans can NOT drive in the rain.
*** Except for catfish, which are not ingurgitated by me, because they eat shit.

I fucking hate sushi. Raw fish smells awful and is simply not fit for human consumption. So of course I agreed to meet The Beaver, My Favorite Person In The Whole World, and some other people at Wasabi in Ghettoberry Hood.

While waiting for the other people, The Beaver and I ordered drinks. Of the first two beers I requested from the drink menu, Wasabi had exactly zero. Fuckers. On the third try, I managed to score a pint of Guinness, saving the hapless waiter from a beatdown.

While everyone else ate, I continued imbibing. They seemed to like the sushi. I enjoyed my Guinness. A Japanese beer, such as a Sapporo, would have also been excellent, if the restaurant could be bothered to have any on hand.

Wasabi is overpriced and undercooked. I predict the $30,000 millionaire crowd will love it. Personally, I wish Top Spice would open a location in the ghetto.