I recently made a life-altering discovery. It's awesome. It's dangerous. It's dangerously awesome.
In a mere seven minutes, I can walk from my front door to the front door of House of Pies. In 20 minutes, tops, I can be snuggled up in bed in possession of far more pie than any one person should ingest in a single sitting.
It's amazing. It's horrible. I can't stop.
During the first few months I lived in the neighborhood, I avoided House of Pies. It looked, to me, like a glorified IHOP, a chain I detest. I figured that, as IHOP had done, it would take one of my favorite foods and turn it into mushy, flavorless cardboard with an $8 price tag. And I have no need for that.
But one Saturday evening, after a glass of wine and a Law & Order marathon with my cat, I found myself hungry at 2 a.m. So after debating the pros and cons of Taco Cabana versus House of Pies, I trekked across a couple of parking lots to the well-lit beacon and took a seat at the bar next to a young girl with green hair and her heavily tattooed mother. And I then ordered a lot of pie.