So I'll regress back to that balmy day when I was on my lonesome in Newport after successfully negotiating my DS2019 through US immigration. I remember ordering a Newport Chicken that was more bizarre than a midnight shawarma with Paul Gascoigne and the Gaddafis. As well as the tomato sauce base, it had chicken (or some sort of white meat chunks) and a slather of genuine fake white sauce and green stuff that was meant to be spinach but might actually have been seaweed dredged from the bottom of the nearest harbour. I wasn't quite sure what to make of my pizza apart from the table I was sitting at was dirtier than a Welsh spear tackle.
Perhaps my first visit was like a Carlos Tevez lost in translation episode so with such fond memories of my Newport Chicken pizza slice I took my little sea legs back to Via Via. I decided to play it safe this time and order a margarita pizza. After grudgingly handing my greenback to Kia Joorabchian behind the till, I sat down and waited for what delight was awaiting me. I think I saw the same stains on the table but 18 months older. By this time it was probably welded into the table. As I sat there unsticking my elbows from the table surface I could take in again the spartan interior. It was as bleak as the state of the Eurozone. Even more bleak than a S&P credit rating downgrading was my pizza slice. I was handed a triangular piece of red acrylic with white cubes, which were probably mozzarella. As I picked it up it flopped like the X-Factor. The only positive was that it was hot. I could taste a tomato base of some sort along with punctuations of rubbery blandness, which were probably the white cube mozzarella things. I'd rather be a Man U fan and be Liam Gallagher's footstool during Sunday's game than go back.
The Ho Down says: Oh Dia Dia.
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