Libor Koláčný I arrived at Fare expecting a round pizza. A simple, predictable disc. Instead, they brought me this... this enormous, folded, tomato-bleeding leather pouch. It looked like a giant’s lost slipper.
My colleagues laughed. "You’ll never finish that," they whispered, as if I hadnt spent years training for this very moment. Poor fools.
I attacked the Calzone like a man with a grudge. Prosciutto, mushrooms, cheese—everything tucked inside like a delicious secret. It was a breeze. In fact, it was so easy I had to jump over and finish my colleagues Quattro Formaggi just to feel something.
My stomach was 90% dough, I could barely move, and I’ve never been happier. Top marks.
