Six Slices or Eight?
There is a pizza parlor right in Downtown Crossing in Boston, on Winter Street (the one that goes south and turns into Summer St. - get it?). It's right opposite what used to be Jordan Marsh, in the main crossroads of the pedestrian mall right there.
Curiously, it is not Greek or Italians that are tossing the pizza dough in the window, they are definitely Oriental in origin. I won't try to remember the name of the place because it changes all the time. The same people continue to run the place. In the back, turns out, is a Chinese fast food place.
So Rade and I are walking to this place at lunch, and both of us are kind of hungry, and rather than order slices individually for ourselves, we decide to order an entire pizza. As we walk in the door, there is this wonderful pie just coming out of the oven and we declare: "That's the one we want !" and pay for our fizzy water and sit down. When the pie is cool enough the guy calls over to us, his cutter poised above the huge round steaming mass of cheese and sauce, "how many slices ? six or eight ?".
Rade calls back to him, saying, "Better make it six, we couldn't possibly eat eight." The cutter stayed paralyzed in mid-air for just a few tantalizing moments while the brain tried to process the meaning of what was said, and then proceeded to cut the pizza into six slices. Delivered with a scowl. Some people just are not entertained with life's commentary. Oh well.
The fast food in the back has an inexpensive "mini-combo" where you can get some rice, whatever is on special, for about $2.50 (this is about a year ago). Easy quantity, if not a precocious taste.