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September 5, 2009
On the way to Candle 79, one of the city's best vegan restaurants, we pass by one of the countless non-descript pizza places that's remembered more by location than name. We murmur, "Mmm, pizza," and I secretly want to cancel our reservations and slip inside for cheesy goodness.

At dinner, we indulge in the civility of seitan this and that, tofu whatnot, and non-dairy whatthefuck. We have no room for anything else, except somehow we both saved perfect wedge-shaped spaces in our stomachs.

"Pizza for dessert?" we say.

I feel like a Jew who drives on Saturday.

Oh. Um. Wait.