I’d never have found the place by myself, but that’s why I had a guide. It was in a row of strip-mall shops surrounded by building sites for new bungalows. The front was wood rather than glass, with a small sign above the door: Boet. Anders led me inside, to a small entrance hall with a desk, behind which was a man in traditional Swedish costume, a white shirt with detailed blue stitching. He and Anders talked in Swedish, then Anders explained that I would need a temperature check. I shrugged – it was a long time since covid – but their place, their rules. Anders showed me the menu, but the only thing I could read were the prices in two columns, one much lower than the other. I told Anders to order for me, which meant more Swedish that I didn’t understand, then the door was opened, and we could enter.
I can never unread this pizza horror piece, James. I’ve now gone off Sweden and pizza thanks to your demented handiwork.
I am so sorry, Jude. That's actually one of the lighter stories in the Swedish Pizza collection.
Please don’t move on to other her food groups or my diet may constrict even further! 🍕😭