Date Night: Gaspare’s

There are hundreds of fake grape clusters hanging from the ceilings, red and white checkered tablecloths, “That’s Amore” playing loudly in the background. Wine is served in huge quantities. Paunchy, beaming waiters slide steaming pizzas in front of their patrons. Gaspare’s, I’ve realized, is pretty much exactly where I would have chosen to go on a date as a socially inept sixth grader, knowing even then that anything Italian equals romance. Right?

I mean…yeah. Gaspare’s is romantic, somehow, despite being cheesy, and though the 29 different pizzas might also contribute to its appeal, there’s just something heartfluttering about sitting down amidst that many Italian accents. And consistently refilled glasses of wine.

And the pizza’s pretty tasty – big portions, really gooey, on a crispy thin crust. Each time I go I find myself eating my slice like a taco so none of the grease or toppings slide off. If, God forbid, a night slurping down a scorpion bowl at nearby Trad’r Sam is in order, Gaspare’s might be a smart place to insulate that stomach lining.

The thing is, though, I never see any dates here, just huge families or dead-eyed roommates haggard from too many months in the Outer Richmond fog. I’m not really sure why lovebirds aren’t roosting by the dozens. This place has unironically all the elements of a traditional date setting, which could be fun for an ironically traditional date. Or something.

 

Gaspare’s Pizza House and Italian Restaurant
5546 Geary
[Outer Richmond]

 

www.gasparespizza.com

Photo Credit: Andrea T.

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Lucy Schiller - Destitute Dispatcher

Lucy's been able to live lots of places but holds her cornfed/pie-fueled Midwestern roots most dear, maintaining too loudly and too often that the Outer Richmond is the Midwest of SF: driven through to get elsewhere and knocked around for no reason (but what other neighborhood has bison?!). You can find Lucy letting things languish in her fridge, purposefully (limoncello!) or not (yogurt...), mouthbreathing, scouring Golden Gate Park for apartment-worthy items, sleepily serving up double nonfat half-caf-half-non-caf lattes at a certain cafe, skulking in various other ones, and yelling under cover of night and costume at SF Bike Party.

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