Fornino's--Brooklyn

718.384.6004

So we used to live right next door to the L Cafe and remember saying goodbye to the ineptitude that it fostered, reveling when a small business with a semi-corporate panache called Fornino’s took place. Imagine our excitement when this gourmet place opened up, complete with a competent staff and a stellar classica Margherita pizza. Within a few months Fornino was the staple Sunday night dinner, we had it down to such a science that we could budget the exact dollar amount and run down in our bathrobes in the dead of winter. Yes, it was the best of times, and looking back I now know that we took Fornino for granted by calling it our local pizza restaurant.

Unfortunately, the vagaries associated from living across from Spike Hill and Greenpoint Tavern forced us to part ways with the comfort we’d so depended upon. We moved two stops away on the L, to Italian Williamsburg. Now this area is much more quiet and subdued, and though it is resplendent with Italian restaurants and pizza parlors, nothing could compare to Fornino’s delectability. I now no longer eat at Fornino’s, and this is indirectly related with moving.
It is heart wrenching to develop a relationship with a restaurant that is owned by a devoted chef, a person who’s very soul is served up daily on wood fired dough, and then seeing this restaurant run by a bunch of stupid, inconsiderate, bungling nincompoops. After a few weeks of withdrawal we opted to try a delivery. We called Fornino’s unfamiliar with the delivery zones due to our recent proximity and the girl who answered the phone admitted she wasn’t sure about delivery, but that they weren’t open for another hour and we should call back. When we called back an hour later (starving) she said that the driver was happy to trek out to East Williamsburg to deliver to devoted ex-neighbors and took our order. We were elated, not only were they going to deliver, but we had also been promoted to quasi regular-status. An hour passed, and were now two hours from our initial call (famished). We waited. Another twenty minutes passed and my wife called back. The girl said that the driver had refused to deliver once he realized where we lived. We asked why she couldn’t have called us, why she had to torture us with the anticipation of a Fornino’s pie, why she couldn’t have practiced a little human decency and at least given us the courtesy of a phone call? She replied that she was busy, and unapologetically hung up the phone.

After a few minutes our anger bubbled up. Who was this woman to torment us so? Some twenty-something artist, unconcerned with customer service that is so beneath her, and mostly likely uninspired by the very art she served no doubt. We called back demanding the manager. Imagine our surprise when a few minutes later the bus boy gets on the phone! Delivery he asks in a thick south American accent, no we say, manager. I manager he responds, delivery? No! Where’s the manager?!? Click. We call back. No answer, the restaurant caller id reveals our number. That sniveling little turd not only was discourteous to us, but is willing to stake the reputation of sublime pizza on her snide demeanor. Fuck her, fuck Fornino’s, eat there if you want but I am man of principle. I would rather eat stale Italian-Williamsburg pizza than potentially support a smug little cunt like that.