Dear Maestro,

My wife has a new job and travels a lot and she’s in Toronto right now and I felt too lazy to prepare a fresh meal myself. So I bought one of your Wood-fired pizzas that come in a giant box with a saliva-inducing picture.

I don’t know why I keep buying you pizzas because they never look and taste as good as on your packaging. I know you say “suggested serving” on the packaging, but I thought that only meant that I don’t have the wood-fired oven with its licking flames in the background. I should have known better, it means that instead of spreading the topping on the whole pizza, you just put a tiny drop of onions, cheese and dried tomatoes in the middle, and expect that gravity and the heat of the oven does the rest. Well, gravitational forces are strong in my house, but they can’t make up for a lack of matter.

I basically grew up on those pre-made pizzas, like every student in the Netherlands that lives alone does. So I can call myself an expert in the field. But not only are the store-bought pizzas much cheaper in my home country, they also are of much better quality. And don’t tell me that is because it’s closer to Italy and you can’t find the same quality ingredients here, maestro, because I don’t buy that argument.

So maestro, yet again I’m very disappointed in your offerings. I’m even tempted to call the toll-free number on the back of the box and tell you I’m not 100% satisfied. Not 100% satisfied? I’m not even 50% satisfied.

Yes, the mix of dough and cheese you put in your box, in no way bearing any resemblance to the glorious picture, filled me, but it didn’t taste very good and certainly didn’t live up to my expectations.

Maestro, I bet you aren’t even a real Italian, because I’m sure every real Italian would be seriously ashamed of this item you dare to call “pizza”. I almost would suggest that you crawl into that wood-fired oven of you (that probably consists of an electrically heated conveyor belt with a sprinkling of charcoal) and check out if your own fat melts as well as the cheese on this cardboard semicircle. But I won’t, because it would be too cruel for your underpaid factory workers to endure that sight.

So I’ll do what I should have done in the first place, and never again will buy one of your products. That’ll teach you.



(I’m hungry again)