OK, so i am probably voicing an unpopular opinion here and risking my legion of followers, but pizza mia is pretty fucking mid. yes. MID! let me explain, but allow me to take the scenic route.

i’m with my friend and fellow food fan @shaari_ on the day’s mission. we’re riding over to the kaanivaa bus stop. shaari can’t find any parking spots nearby so he motors on into the winding depths of this path, towards citron.

‘sometimes, you’ve just got to push a little deeper, right?’ he says grinning. then i realize it is a joke. are we in for a treat on this adventure, i think.

we get on the phase 1 bus (cos i don’t have a helmet), and take seats next to each other on the top deck like a teenage couple.

at the raalhugandu stop, a mutual friend, kamana, gets on and waves at us.

‘hey, where you off to?’ i greet her like any maldivian may as she takes a seat opposite us.

‘ripple cafe,’ she says. ‘for work. where are YOU guys off to?’

‘pizza mia,’ i reply.

‘that’s some dedication,’ she says. ‘is shaari going to write about it?’

then shaari doxes me.

‘oh, i always thought husenfulhu was you, shaari!’ she laughs.

i feel offended – i mean it takes AT LEAST a degree and YEARS of experience to write like me goddammit. unless you use a GPT like some losers.

‘why’d you get on at raalhugandu?’ i ask. ‘i mean instead of at kaanivaa?’

‘oh, it gets much too crowded there, don’t you think?’ she says.

i nod. her voice makes me think of dolphins in the warm iruvai sea. or irridescent spiders in their beautiful silken webs in a sun spotted forest. things like that.

as the bus picks up speed on the highway, a couple of guys, university students i think, start talking politics in their know-it-all tone.

‘do you think muizz is a visionary?’ asks one.

‘he has tunnel vision, more like,’ says the other.

kamana snorts.

the three of us get off the bus at the same stop and say goodbye.

‘kamana is such a cool gal,’ i tell shaari.

‘absolutely,’ he says. ‘maybe we should invite her.’

‘we could’ve if she wasn’t working.’

‘hmm, unfortunate.’

at pizza mia, we cannot decide on staying outdoors or in. but after a brief period on the hot deck, we retreat to the air conditioned interior.

we decide on a half and half. one with bresaola and the other with turkey ham, artichokes, mushrooms, olives, and tomatoes.

‘you’ve never eaten here before, then?’ asks shaari.

‘never.’

‘not even while they were open in male?’

‘oh, i did back then.’

‘it’s not much different,’ he says.

‘yeah, some people think it’s criminal i’ve not reviewed this place tho. we’ll see what it’s made of.’

the pizza arrives soon. shaari takes a dozen photos before finally letting me dig in. he looks at me intently.

‘i like the crust,’ i tell him. ‘it’s like a stone oven crust.’

‘and?’

‘i like the bresaola.’

‘and?’

‘and the rest feels like it was pulled out of a can!’

‘really now,’ says shaari. ‘a can.’

i call the server and ask him the brand of the mushrooms in our pizza (a trick question as the intelligent reader undoubtedly knows). he goes downstairs, returns quickly, and tells me animatedly.

‘american classic, sir.’

when he leaves, i google american classic. shaari sees the cans and laughs.

‘all right, mr. critic,’ he says. ‘so you know the difference between canned and fresh mushrooms. that’s some skill you’ve got there.’

‘more skill than YOU’ve got, you fake foodie,’ i think to myself. but of course i don’t say this because i need the man’s audience. that’s right. i DO have self control. fuck you moosaalhu.

‘you say something?’ asks shaari. i shake my head.

we pay the bill, which is MVR265 (and it seems they charge far more for the ambiance than the ingredients) and head off towards the ferry terminal. we don’t walk too fast cos we have ten minutes til the 3.30 boat leaves for male.

‘full disclosure,’ i begin. ‘riveli has paid me to write copy. but seriously, you gotta experience their pizzas. and soon, before it all goes to hell. as they all eventually do.’

‘next weekend,’ says shaari. and off we go into the deep of the AC ferry, mostly empty but for a few migrant workers headed back to the city.

‘by the way, do you regret going there?’ asks shaari as we cross the sea. ‘to pizza mia?’

‘not at all,’ i tell him.

‘why not?’

i smile. you, the attentive reader, will know exactly why.