Our 17th week of consecutive pizza consumption coincided nicely with Election Day here in these United States (I point this out just in case you’re reading this from China or some other exotic locale. One of the cool features of Blogspot is that it provides me with fun facts about my blog. For example, did you know that Pizza Every Week has been viewed over 1500 times? Or that it’s been accessed six times from China? World domination shall be mine!), so a trip to our state’s capitol city of St. Paul seemed like an appropriate way to recognize this important political milestone.
Although St. Paul is a mere 15 miles from our front door, it took us two trips, two cars, a lot of foul language, a silent novena, and a heck of a lot of antacids to successfully arrive at our dinner location. Let me explain. The hubby has a taste for the finer things in life and motors through town in his expensive German automobile – a car that I bought after we bet on whether or not he could quit smoking. (He did. And I followed through on my end of the bargain. His lungs are worth more than any expensive car, German or not.) Now, if you know me at all, you know that I’m not typically one who is status or label conscious. I like nice things but I also like money, and I have a hard time reconciling spending the equivalent of the US median household income on something that depreciates the second you drive it off the car lot. I do recognize that an expensive luxury automobile has a few more bells and whistles than, say, a 2008 Honda Civic Hybrid, but at a price tag upwards of $40,000, I’m going to need more than a fancy stereo, heated seats, and a back-up camera. At that price, I’d like the car to drive and park itself and maybe throw in the occasional load of laundry.
But I digress. The moral of the story is that we are a two-car household. One of those cars is a battered and abused 2008 Honda Civic with over 100k miles and a lot of parking ramp damage. The Honda gets a full tank of gas once a week (not the fancy stuff, either); a car wash a couple of times a year or when I can no longer see out the windows, whichever comes first; and maintenance when the dash lights up and scares me into making an appointment. It’s not fancy, but it does get 35-40 mpg and while I don’t have heated seats, I do have a furry pink steering wheel cover. (Available at Wal-Marts everywhere. You know you want one.) My car isn’t winning any beauty contests or races. The other car is the hubby’s aforementioned expensive German automobile. His car gets hand washed on a regular basis; waxed (!); special expensive gasoline; different tires depending on the season; and god forbid you park too close to him. A sweet elderly man who may have dinged the expensive German automobile in a Chili’s parking lot experienced the hubby’s wrath. You won’t like him when he’s angry. The hubby’s car is more expensive than mine, shinier than mine, and it goes a lot faster than mine. Plus he finds my pink steering wheel cover emasculating, so when we go out, we take his car.
This fateful Saturday was no different. We piled into the expensive German automobile and headed east. However, about halfway through our journey, the car’s dash lit up like a pinball machine while the car itself began to shake violently and lost a significant amount of power while we were cruising along at 60+ MPG on the freeway. Horrified, we made the decision to return home and prayed that the car would make it. (Okay, maybe I was the only one praying.) Needless to say, moods were tense.
We got home, sorted out the expensive German automobile (sort of) and because we were still damn hungry, restarted our journey but this time, in the trusty old Honda.
Pre-Pizza Moods: Do I need to spell this out for you? Car problems – especially those involving expensive imported cars – are a sure-fired recipe for a lousy mood. To say that we were at a pre-pizza mood of about 2.5 is generous, if we are rounding up.
Parking Situation: Moods were not improved when we arrived at Cossetta’s to discover what I can only describe as gridlock, leading into their Munchkin-sized parking lot. Cossetta’s does offer limited off street parking in their lot, but it’s first-come, first-served, and there was a line of six or seven cars trying to enter as we pulled up. As Mayors of Crankytown, we lacked the patience required to navigate this and instead, pulled into the large Allina/Children’s Hospital parking ramp across the street. The ramp is not affiliated with Cossetta’s and therefore, you will pay for your parking spot. Mine cost $4.
In other news, a person with my limited driving and parking abilities is not fit to navigate either the Cossetta’s parking lot or the Allina ramp across the street. The only way I can ever eat at Cossetta’s again is if I take public transportation.
Exterior Appearance: From the outside, Cossetta looks like exactly what it is; a celebration of old world Italian delicacies that has anchored this corner of St. Paul for over 100 years.
Entrance/Welcome: From the moment you push open the doors, you’ll be swept up in the hustle and bustle of Cossetta’s. While you might be tempted to stand completely still in order to deeply inhale the aroma of authentic Italian herbs and spices, I can’t encourage you to do this, because you’ll create a roadblock. You’ll be in good company, though, as I noticed a large number of human obstacles in my way as I bumbled into Cossetta’s and tried to figure out what to do, where to go and how to get a meal. Put another way, it’s not abundantly clear how to proceed once you enter.
Clientele/Vibe: Cossetta’s clientele was a mix of families and a surprising number of tweens and teens. It’s definitely a “come as you are” kind of place where anything goes. It’s loud, it’s crowded, and there is a buzz in the air.
Wait Staff: This is no sit-down restaurant. Rather, Cossetta’s is a cross between a mall food court and University Dining Services, who fed me during my years of dorm living. If you’re not comfortable with a cafeteria tray and plastic eating utensils, this isn’t the place for you. If you don’t like to wait in line to be fed, you should probably go somewhere else. Here at Cossetta’s, you’re your own waiter . . . and you will wait, in line. To be honest, you’ll wait in several separate lines depending on what you decide to eat.
Menu Selection: No matter what you’re craving, you can probably get it at Cossetta’s. Salads, pastas, sandwiches, sausage and peppers, soups, desserts, and of course, pizza . . . they have it all. And probably some more stuff I failed to mention.
Since we’re committed to our vision of eating pizza every week, we got down to business and ordered the house special, which is a 17 inch, four topping pizza. You can make your own or you can select from their specialty pizza menu. Pizza is sold by the pie and by the slice.
Food Wait Time: We placed our order at the counter and then went upstairs with our plastic forks to find a place to sit. About half an hour later, our pizza was ready and the hubby trotted back downstairs to retrieve it.
Drumroll, please . . . the pizza itself: You can’t beat hand-kneaded dough made from scratch for a nice pizza crust. The sauce was zippy and the toppings were amazingly fresh. Our house special featured Cossetta’s own Italian sausage, black olives, green pepper, and onion. And. It. Was. Huge.
I give Cossetta’s high marks on the freshness of their ingredients, but this wasn’t the best pizza I’ve ever tasted. They were a bit too liberal with the onions, which were cut into long, thick slices that reminded me of french fries. They also stuck in my dental work and my throat. It was a good, solid pizza and if I were going to give the pizza a performance appraisal, I would say it met expectations.
Price & Value: Keeping in mind that I had to shell out $4 to park the car and another $45 to be my own waiter, the prices here are high. The value is decent – they use a lot of locally sourced and organic products, but that kind of quality doesn’t come cheap.
Post-Pizza Mood: I might not be a gal who needs an expensive German automobile to be happy, but I do like a nice meal that I don’t have to cook or serve myself. I don’t like eating in the cafeteria at work, where I believe our meals are partially subsidized, and I certainly am not one who wants to get up close and personal with a bunch of friends I haven’t met yet banging into me with their plastic trays while shelling out top dollar to do so. I left feeling full, but also feeling decidedly “over it”. My post-pizza mood was about a 4.
My hubby, who interestingly is the more negative of the two of us, also tends to rate his moods higher. However, he was still feeling pretty anxious about the fate of his expensive German automobile when we departed, so he was hovering around a 3.
Bottom Line: Like Fat Lorenzo’s and other iconic pizzerias, this is one of those places that has a nostalgia factor for many people. And those people hate me a little bit right now because I don’t love Cossetta’s the way they do in their memories. The only way I’ll be back is if someone else drives and picks up the check.
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